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Copyright , i8q2

By Roberts Brothers

Colonial Press:

C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U. S. A.

MANSFIELD PARK

PART FIRST

MANSFIELD PARK.

CHAPTER I.

BOUT thirty years ago Miss Maria
Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven
thousand pounds, had the good luck to
captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mans¬
field Park, in the county of Northampton, and to
be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet s lady,
with all the comforts and consequences of a hand¬
some house and large income. All Huntingdon
exclaimed on the greatness of the match; and her
uncle, the lawyer, himself allowed her to be at
least three thousand pounds short of any equitable
claim to it. She had two sisters to be benefited
by her elevation; and such of their acquaintance
as thought Miss Ward and Miss Prances quite as
handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to pre¬
dict their marrying with almost equal advantage.
But there certainly are not so many men of large
fortune in the world as there are pretty women to
leserve them. Miss Ward, at the end of half-*

6

MANSFIELD PARK.

dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached
to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-
law, with scarcely any private fortune; and Miss
Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward’s match,
indeed, when it came to the point, was not con¬
temptible, Sir Thomas being happily able to give
his friend an income in the living of Mansfield;
and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their- career of
conjugal felicity with very little less than a thou¬
sand a year. But Miss Frances married, in the
common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by
fixing on a Lieutenant of Marines, without educa¬
tion, fortune, or connections, did it very thor¬
oughly. She could hardly have made a more
untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had in¬
terest which, from principle as well as pride,
from a general wish of doing right, and a- desire
of seeing all that were connected with him in situ¬
ations of respectability, he would have been glad
to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram’s sis¬
ter: hut her husband’s profession was such as no
interest could reach; and before he had time to
devise any other method of assisting them, an
absolute breach between the sisters had taken
place. It was the natural result of the conduct
of each party, and such as a very imprudent mar¬
riage almost always produces. To save herself
from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote
to her family on the subject till actually married.
Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil
feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indo¬
lent, would have contented herself with merely
giving up her sister, and thinking no more of the

MANSFIELD PARK.

7

matter; but Mrs. Norris bad a spirit of activity,
which could not he satisfied till she had written a
long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the
folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all its
possible ill consequences. Mrs. Price, in her
turn, was injured and angry; and an answer,
which comprehended each sister in its bitterness,
and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on
the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not
possibly keep to herself, put an end to all inter¬
course between them for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in
which they moved so distinct, as almost to preclude
the means of ever hearing of each other’s existence
during the eleven following years, or at least to
make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs.
Norris should ever have it in her power to tell
them, as she now and then did in an angry voice,
that Fanny had got another child. By the end of
eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no longer
afford to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose
one connection that might possibly assist her.
A large and still increasing family, a husband dis¬
abled for active service, but not the less equal to
company and good liquor, and a very small income
to supply their wants, made her eager to regain
the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and
she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which
spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a
superfluity of children, and such a want of almost
everything else, as could not but dispose them all
to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her
ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circum-

8

MANSFIELD PARK.

stance, and imploring their countenance as spon¬
sors to the expected child, she could not conceal
how important she felt they might be to the future
maintenance of the eight already in being. Her
eldest was a boy of ten years old, a fine spirited
fellow, who longed to be out in the world; hut
what could she do? Was there any chance of his
being hereafter useful to Sir Thomas in the con¬
cerns of his West Indian property? No situation
would be beneath him, — or what did Sir Thomas
think of Woolwich? or how could a boy he sent
out to the East?

The letter was not unproductive. It re-estab¬
lished peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent
friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram de¬
spatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris
wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a
twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs.
Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was often
observing to the others that she could not get her
poor sister and her family out of her head, and
that, much as they had all done for her, she
seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length
sh^ could not but own it to be her wish that poor
Mrs. Price should he relieved from the charge and
expense of one child entirely out of her great
number.

“What if they were among them to undertake
the care of her eldest daughter, a girl now nine
years old, of an age to require more attention than
her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble
and expense of it to them would he nothing com-

MANSFIELD PARK.

9

pared with the benevolence of the action. Lad)
Bertram agreed with her instantly. “I think we
cannot do better,” said she; “let us send for the
child.”

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and
unqualified a consent. He debated and hesitated:
it was a serious charge; a girl so brought up
must he adequately provided for, or there would
be cruelty instead of kindness in taking her from
her family. He thought of his own four" chil¬
dren, — of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc. ;
but no sooner had he deliberately begun to state
his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him
with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.

“My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend
you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy
of your notions, which indeed are quite of a piece
with your general conduct; and I entirely agree
with you in the main as to the propriety of doing
everything one could by way of providing for a
child one had in a manner taken into one s own
hands; and I am sure I should be the last person
in the world to withhold my mite upon such an
occasion. Having no children of my own, whom
should I look to in any little matter 1 may eve.
have to bestow, but the children of my sisters,
and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just - But you
know I am a woman of few words and
Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a
trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce
her properly into the world, and ten to one but she
has the means of settling well, without furtteex-
pense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir ihorna.,

10

MANSFIELD PARK.

I may say, or at least of yours, would not grow up
in this neighborhood without many advantages.
I don’t say she would be so handsome as her
cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would
be introduced into the society of this country un¬
der such very favorable circumstances as in all
human probability would get her a creditable estab¬
lishment. You are thinking of your sons, — but do
not you know that of all things upon earth that is
the least likely to happen; brought up, as they
would be, always together like brothers and sis¬
ters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an
instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of
providing against the connection. Suppose her a
pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the
first time seven years hence, and I dare say there
would be mischief. The very idea of her having
been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all
in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make
either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love
with her. But breed her up with them from this
time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of
an angel, and she will never be more to either
than a sister.”

‘ ‘ There is a great deal of truth in what you
say,” replied Sir Thomas, “and far be it from me
to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a
plan which would be so consistent with the rela¬
tive situations of each. I only meant to observe
that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and
that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price,
and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the
child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to

MANSFIELD PARK.

11

her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the pro¬
vision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment
should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting.”

“I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs.
Norris; “you are everything that is generous and
considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree
on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well
know, I am always ready enough to do for the
good of those I love; and though I could never
feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the
regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider
her in any respect so much my own, I should
hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her.
Is not she a sister’s child? and could I bear to see
her want, while I had a bit of bread to give her?
My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a
warm heart, and poor as I am, would rather deny
myself the necessaries of life than do an ungen¬
erous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will
write to my poor sister to-morrow, and make the
proposal; and as soon as matters are settled, I
will engage to get the child to Mansfield; you
shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble,
you know, I never regard. I will send Nanny to
London on purpose, and she may have a bed at her
cousin the saddler’s, and the child be appointed to
meet her there. They may easily get her from
Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the care
of any creditable person that may chance to be
going. I dare say there is always some reputable
tradesman’s wife or other going up.”

Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin, Sir
Thomas no longer made any objection; and a more

12

MANSFIELD PARK

respectable though less economical rendezvous
being accordingly substituted, everything was con¬
sidered as settled, and the pleasures of so benevo¬
lent a scheme were already enjoyed. The division
of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice,
to have been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully
resolved to be the real and consistent patron of
the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the
least intention of being at any expense whatever
in her maintenance. As far as walking, talking,
and contriving reached, she was thoroughly be¬
nevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate
liberality to others; but her love of money was
equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite
as well how to save her own as to spend that of her
friends. Having married on a narrower income
than she had been used to look forward to, she
had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of
economy necessary; and what was begun as a
matter of prudence soon grew into a matter of
choice, as an object of that needful solicitude
which there were no children to supply. Had
there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris
might never have saved her money; but having
no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede
hhr frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a
yearly addition to an income which they had never
lived up to. Under this infatuating principle,
counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it
was impossible for her to aim at more than the
credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a
charity; though perhaps she might so little know
herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after

MANSFIELD PARK.

13

this conversation, in the happy belief of being
the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the
world.

When the subject was brought forward again,
her views were more fully explained; and in
reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry of “ Where
shall the child come to first, sister, — to you or to
us? ” Sir Thomas heard, with some surprise,
that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris’s power
to take any share in the personal charge of her.
He had been considering her as a particularly
welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable
companion to an aunt who had no children of her
own; but he found himself wholly mistaken.
Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little girl’s
staying with them, at least as things then were,
was quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris’s
indifferent state of health made it an impossibil¬
ity; he could no more bear the noise of a child
than he could fly. If, indeed, he should ever get
well of his gouty complaints, it would be a differ¬
ent matter ; she should then be glad to take her
turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience:
but just now poor Mr. Norris took up every mo¬
ment of her time, and the very mention of such a
thing she was sure would distract him.

“ Then she had better come to us? ’ said Lady
Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a
short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity:
“ Yes, let her home be in this house. We will
endeavor to do our duty by her, and she will at
least have the advantage of companions of her own
age and of a regular instructress.”

14

MANSFIELD PARK.

“Very true,” cried Mrs. Norris, “which are
both very important considerations; and it will
he just the same to Miss Lee, whether she has
three girls to teach, or only two, — there can be
no difference. I only wish I could he more use¬
ful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not
one of those that spare their own trouble; and
Nanny shall fetch her, however it may put me to
inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away
for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put
the child in the little white attic, near the old
nurseries. It will be much the best place for her,
so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and
close by the housemaids, who could either of them
help to dress her, you know, and take care of her
clothes ; for I suppose you would not think it fair
to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others.
Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place
her anywhere else.”

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

“I hope she will prove a well-disposea girl,”
continued Mrs. Norris, “and be sensible of her
uncommon good fortune in having such friends.”

“Should her disposition be really bad,” said
$ir Thomas, “ we must not, for our own children’s
sake, continue her in the family; but there is no
reason to expect so great an evil. We shall prob-
abty see much to wish altered in her, and must
prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some mean¬
ness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of
manner; but these are not incurable faults, nor,
I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates.
Had my daughters been younger than herself, I

MANSFIELD PAEK.

15

should have considered the introduction of such a
companion as a matter of very serious moment;
hut as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear
for them, and everything to hope for her, from the
association.”

11 That is exactly what I think,” cried Mrs.
Norris, “and what I was saying to my husband
this morning. It will be an education for the
child, said I, only being with her cousins; if
Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to
be good and clever from them.

<<I hope she will not tease my poor pug,” said
Lady Bertram; “I have but just got Julia to
leave it alone.”

“There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs.
Norris,” observed Sir Thomas, “as to the dis¬
tinction proper to be made between the girls as
they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of
my daughters the consciousness of what they are,
without making them think too lowly of their
cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits
too far, to make her remember that she is not a
Miss Bertram. I should wish to see them very
good friends, and would on no account authorize
in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance to¬
wards their relation; but still they cannot be
equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expecta¬
tions will always be different. It is a point of
great delicacy, and you must assist us m our
endeavors to choose exactly the right line of

conduct.” . j

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; an

though she perfectly agreed with him as to 1 s

lb

MANSFIELD PARK.

being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to
hope that between them it would be easily
managed.

It will he readily believed that Mrs. Norris did
not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed
rather surprised that a girl should he fixed on,
when she had so many fine hoys, hut accepted the
offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daugh¬
ter’s being a very well-disposed, good-humored
girl, and trusting they would never have cause to
throw her off. She spoke of her further as some¬
what delicate and puny, hut was sanguine in the
hope of her being materially better for change of
air. Poor woman! she probably thought change
of air might agree with many of her children.

CHAPTER II.

The little girl performed her long journey in
safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs.
Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being
foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of
leading her in to the others, and recommending
her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old;
and though there might not be much in her first
appearance to captivate, there was, at least, noth¬
ing to disgust her relations. She was small of her
age, with no glow of complexion, nor any other
striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and
shrinking from notice ; but her air, though awk¬
ward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and
when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir
Thomas and Lady Bertram receiv ed her very
kindly; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she
needed encouragement, tried to be all that was con¬
ciliating : but he had to work against a most unto¬
ward gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram,
without taking half so much trouble, or speaking
one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a
good-humored smile, became immediately the less

awful character of the two.

The young people were all at home, and sus¬
tained their share in the introduction very well,

VOL. I. — 2

18

MANSFIELD PARK.

with much good-humor, and no embarrassment, at
least on the part of the sons, who at seventeen and
sixteen, and tall of their age, had all the grandeur
of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two
girls were more at a loss, from being younger and
in greater awe of their father, who addressed them
on the occasion with rather an injudicious particu¬
larity. But they were too much used to company
and praise to have anything like natural shyness ;
and their confidence increasing from their cousin’s
total want of it, they were soon able to take a
full survey of her face and her frock in easy
indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family; the sons
very well looking, the daughters decidedly hand¬
some, and all of them well grown and forward of
their age, which produced as striking a difference
between the cousins in person as education had
given to their address ; and no one would have sup¬
posed the girls so nearly of an age as they really
were.

There was, in fact, hut two years between the
youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was only
twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little
visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible.
Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and long¬
ing for the home she had left, she knew not how
to look up, and could scarcely speak to he heard
or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking
to her the whole wray from Northampton of her
wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary de¬
gree of gratitude and good behavior which it ought
to produce, and her consciousness of misery was

MANSFIELD PARK.

19

therefore increased by the idea of its being a
wicked thing for her not to be happy. The fatigue,
too, of so long a journey became soon no trifling
evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions
of Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostica¬
tions of Mrs. Norris that she 'would be a good girl;
in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit
on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was
even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving
her comfort : she could scarcely swallow two mouth¬
fuls before tears interrupted her; and sleep seeming
to be her likeliest friend, she was taken to finish
her sorrows in bed.

“ This is not a very promising beginning,” said
Mrs.. Norris, when Fanny had left the room.
“ After all that I said to her as we came along, I
thought she would have behaved better; I told her
how much might depend upon her acquitting her¬
self well at first. I wish there may not be a little
sulkiness of temper, — her poor mother had a good
deal; but we must make allowances for such a
child; and I do not know that her being sorry to
leave her home is really against her, for, with all
its faults, it was her home, and she cannot as
yet understand how much she has changed for
the better; but then there is moderation in all
things.”

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs.
Norris was inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny
to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the separa¬
tion from everybody she had been used to. Her
feelings were very acute, and too little understood
to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be

20

MANSFIELD PARK.

unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their
way to secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the
next day, on purpose to afford leisure for getting
acquainted with, and entertaining their young
cousin, produced little union. They could not but
hold her cheap on finding that she had but two
sashes, and had never learned French; and when
they perceived her to be little struck with the duet
they were so good as to play, they could do no
more than make her a generous present of some of
their least valued toys, and leave her to herself,
while they adjourned to whatever might be the
favorite holiday sport of the moment, making
artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins,
whether in the school-room, the drawing-room, or
the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding some¬
thing to fear in every person and place. She was
disheartened by Lady Bertram’s silence, awed by
Sir Thomas’s grave looks, and quite overcome by
Mrs. Norris’s admonitions. Her elder cousins
mortified her by reflections on her size, and abashed
her by noticing her shyness; Miss Lee wondered
at ner ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at
her clothes ; and when to these sorrows was added
the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom
she had always been important as playfellow, in¬
structress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk
her little heart was severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could
not console her. The rooms were too large for her
to move in with ease; whatever she touched she

WRT"

MANSFIELD PARK.

21

expected to injure, and she crept about in constant
terror of something or other, often retreating to¬
wards her own chamber to cry; and the little girl
who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she
left it at night, as seeming so desirably sensible of
her peculiar good fortune, ended every day’s sor¬
rows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had
passed in this way, and no suspicion of it con¬
veyed by her quiet, passive manner, when she
was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the
attic stairs.

“ My dear little cousin,” said he, with all the
gentleness of an excellent nature, ‘ ‘ what can he
the matter? ” And sitting down by her, he was
at great pains to overcome her shame in being
so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly.
“ Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or
had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was
she puzzled about anything in her lesson that he
could explain? Did she, in short, want anything
he could possibly get her, or do for her? ” For a
long while no answer could be obtained beyond a
“No, no — not at all — no, thank you; ” but he
still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to
revert to her own home, than her increased sobs
explained to him where the grievance lay. He
tried to console her.

“You are sorry to leave mamma, my dear little
Fanny,” said he, “which shows you to he a very
good girl; hut you must remember that you are
with relations and friends, who all love you, and
wislf to make you happy. Let us walk out in the

22

MANSFIELD PARK.

park, and you shall tell me all about your brothers
and sisters.”

On pursuing the subject, he found that dear as
all these brothers and sisters generally were, there
was one among them who ran more in her thoughts
than the rest. It was William whom she talked of
most, and wanted most to see, — William, the eldest,
a year older than herself, her constant companion
and friend ; her advocate with her mother (of whom
he was the darling) in every distress. “William
did not like she should come away; he had told her
he should miss her very much indeed.” “But
William will write to you, I dare say.” “Yes,
he had promised he would, but he had told her to
write first.” “And when shall you do it? ” She
hung her head, and answered hesitatingly, “ She
did not know; she had not any paper.”

“ If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish
you with paper and every other material, and you
may write your letter whenever you choose. Would
it make you happy to write to William? ”

“Yes, very.”

“Then let it be done now. Come with me into
the breakfast-room ; we shall find everything there,
ancl be sure of having the room to ourselves.”

“But, cousin, — will it go to the post?”

“ Yes, depend upon me it shall; it shall go with
the other letters ; and as your uncle will frank it,
it will cost William nothing.”

“My uncle?” repeated Fanny, with a fright¬
ened look.

“Yes, when you have written the letter, I will
take it to my father to frank.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

23

Fanny thought it a bold measure, hut offered no
further resistance ; and they went together into the
breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper,
and ruled her lines with all the good-will that her
brother could himself have felt, and probably with
somewhat more exactness. He continued with her
the whole time of her writing, to assist her with
his penknife or his orthography, as either were
wanted; and added to these attentions, which she
felt very much, a kindness to her brother, which
delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with
his own hand his love to his cousin William, and
sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny’s
feelings on the occasion were such as she believed
herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance
and ai few artless words fully conveyed all their
gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find
her an interesting object. He talked to her more,
and, from all that she said, was convinced of her
having an affectionate heart, and a strong desii’e of
doing right; and he could perceive her to be fur¬
ther entitled to attention, by great sensibility of
her situation, and great timidity. He had never
knowingly given her pain, hut he now felt that she
required more positive kindness, and with that
view endeavored, in the first place, to lessen her
fears of them all, and gave her especially a great
deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and
Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable.
She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of
her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with
everybody else. The place became less strange,

24

MANSFIELD PARK.

and the people less formidable; and if there were
some amongst them whom she could not cease to
fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to
catch the best manner of conforming to them. The
little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at
first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of
all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away,
and she was no longer materially afraid to appear
before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris’s voice
make her start very much. To her cousins she
became occasionally an acceptable companion.
Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and
strength, to he their constant associate, their
pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature
to make a third very useful, especially when that
third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and
they could not hut own, when their aunt inquired
into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her
claims to their kindness, that “ Fanny was good-
natured enough.”

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she
had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom
than that sort of merriment which a young man of
seventeen will always think fair with a child of
te^. He was just entering into life, full of spirits,
and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest
son, who feels born only for expense and enjoy¬
ment. His kindness to his little cousin was con¬
sistent with his situation and rights ; he made her
some very pretty presents, and laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir
Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater sat¬
isfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was

MANSFIELD PARK.

25

pretty soon decided between them that though far
from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, aud
seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean
opinion of her abilities was not confined to them.
Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had
been taught nothing more; and as her cousins
found her ignorant of many things with which
they had been long familiar, they thought her pro¬
digiously stupid, and for the first two or three
weeks were continually bringing some fresh report
of it into the drawing-room. “Dear mamma, only
think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe to¬
gether — or my cousin cannot tell the principal
rivers in Russia — or she never heard of Asia
Minor — or she does not know the difference be¬
tween . water-colors and crayons! How strange!
Did you ever hear anything so stupid? ”

“ My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply,
“it is very bad; but you must not expect every¬
body to be as forward and quick at learning as
yourself.”

“But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do
you know, we asked her last night, which way she
would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she
should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of
nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it the
Island, as if there were no other island in the
world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of
myself, if I had not known better long before I
was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time
when I did not know a great deal that she has not
the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt,
since we used to repeat the chronological order of

26

MANSFIELD PARK.

the kings of England, with the dates of their ac¬
cession, and most of the principal events of their
reigns! ”

“Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman
emperors as low as Severus ; besides a great deal of
the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi¬
metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.”

“Very true, indeed, my dears; hut you are
blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor
cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast
deal of difference in memories, as well as in every¬
thing else, and therefore you must make allowance
for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And re¬
member that if you are ever so forward and clever
yourselves, you should always be modest ; for, much
as you know already, there is a great deal more fox
you to learn.”

“Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen.
But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so
odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she
does not want to learn either music or drawing.”

“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid in¬
deed, and shows a great want of genius and emu¬
lation. But, all things considered, I do not know
whether it is not as well that it should be so; for,
though you know (owing to me) your papa and
mamma are so good as to bring her up with you, it
is not at all necessary that she should be as accom¬
plished as you are; on the contrary, it is much
more desirable that there should be a difference.”

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris
assisted to form her nieces’ minds; and it is not
very wonderful that with all their promising tal-

MANSFIELD PARK.

27

exits and early information, they should he entirely
deficient in the less common acquirements of self-
knowledge, generosity, and humility. In every¬
thing hut disposition they were admirably taught.
Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, be¬
cause, though a truly anxious father, he was not
outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his man¬
ner repressed all the flow of their spirits before
him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Ber¬
tram paid not the smallest attention. She had not
time for such cares. She was a woman who spent
her days in sitting nicely dressed on a sofa, doing
some long piece of needlework, of little use and no
beauty, thinking more of her pug than her chil¬
dren, but very indulgent to the latter, when it did
not put herself to inconvenience, guided in every¬
thing important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller
concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater
leisure for the service of her girls, she would prob¬
ably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were
under the cai’e of a goveimess, with proper mastei’s,
and could want nothing more. As for Fanny’s
being stupid at learning, “ she could only say it
was very unlucky, hut some people were stupid,
and Fanny must take more pains ; she did not
know what else was to he done; and, except her
being so dull, she must add, she saw no harm in
the poor little thing, — and always found her very
handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetch¬
ing what she wanted.”

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and ti¬
midity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning

28

MANSFIELD PARK.

to transfer in its favor much of her attachment to
her former home, grew up there not unhappily
among her cousins. There was no positive ill-
nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was
often mortified by their treatment of her, she
thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured
by it.

From about the time of her entering the family,
Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health
and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in
town, which she had been used to occupy every
spring, and remained wholly in the country, leav¬
ing Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament,
with whatever increase or diminution of comfort
might arise from her absence. In the country,
therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise
their memories, practise their duets, and grow tall
and womanly; and their father saw them becoming
in person, manner, and accomplishments, every¬
thing that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest
son was careless and extravagant, and had already
given him much uneasiness; but his other children
promised him nothing hut good. His daughters,
he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram,
must he giving it new grace, and in quitting it
he trusted would extend its respectable alliances ;
and the character of Edmund, his strong good
sense and uprightness of mind, hid most fairly
for utility, honor, and happiness to himself and
all his connections. He was to he a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his
own children suggested, Sir Thomas did not for¬
get to do what he could for the children of Mrs.

MANSFIELD PARK.

29

Price: he assisted her liberally in the education
and disposal of her sons as they became old enough
for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny, though
almost totally separated from her family, was
sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of
any kindness towards them, or of anything at all
promising in their situation or conduct. Once,
and once only in the course of many years, had
she the happiness of being with William. Of
the rest she saw nothing : nobody seemed to think
of her ever going amongst them again, even for
a visit. Nobody at home seemed to want her; but
William determining, soon after her removal, to
be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his
sister in Northamptonshire, before he went to
sea. 'Their eager affection in meeting, their ex¬
quisite delight in being together, their hours of
happy mirth, and moments of serious conference
.may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views
*and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the
misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily
the visit happened in the Christmas holidays,
when she could directly look for comfort to her
cousin Edmund; and he told her such charming
things of what William was to do and be here¬
after, in consequence of his profession, as made
her gradually admit that the separation might
have some use. Edmund’s friendship never failed
her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change
in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more
frequent opportunities of proving them. With¬
out any display of doing more than the rest, or
any fear of doing too much, he was always true

30

MANSFIELD PARK

to her interests, and considerate of her feelings;
trying to make her good qualities understood,
and to conquer the diffidence which prevented
their being more apparent; giving her advice,
consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his
single support could not bring her forward; but
his attention were otherwise of the highest im¬
portance in assisting the improvement of her
mind, and extending its pleasures. He knew
her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension
as well as good sense, and a fondness for reading
which, properly directed, must be an education
in itself. Miss Lee taught her French, and
heard her read the daily portion of history ; but
he recommended the books which charmed her
leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and cor¬
rected her judgment: he made reading useful by
talking to her of what she read, and heightened
its attraction by judicious praise. In return for
such services she loved him better than anybody
in the world except William : her heart was di¬
vided between the two.

\

CHAPTER III.

The first event of any importance in the family
was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened
when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Nor¬
ris, on quitting the Parsonage, removed first to
the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir
Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for
the loss of her husband by considering that she
could do very well without him, and for her reduc¬
tion of income by the evident necessity of stricter
economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and had
his uncle died a few years sooner, it would have
been duly given to some friend to hold till he
were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extrava¬
gance had, previous to that event, been so great
as to render a different disposal of the next pre¬
sentation necessary, and the younger brother must
help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There
was another family living actually held for Ed¬
mund; but though this circumstance had made
the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s
conscience, he could not hut feel it to be an act
of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress hia
eldest son with the same conviction, in the hope
of its producing a better effect than anything he
had yet been able to say or do.

32

MANSFIELD PARK.

“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most
dignified manner; “ I blush for the expedient
which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your
feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have
robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, per¬
haps for life, of more than half the income which
ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power,
or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better
preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no
benefit of that sort would have been beyond his
natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in
fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage
which he is now obliged to forego through the
urgency of your debts.”

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow;
but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon
with cheerful selfishness reflect, first, that he had
not been half so much in debt as some of his
friends ; secondly, that his father had made a most
tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the
future incumbent, whoever he might be, would in
all probability die very soon.

On Mr. Norris’s death, the presentation became
the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to
reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a hearty
man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr.
Bertram’s calculations. But “No, he was a short¬
necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well
with good things, would soon pop off. ’ ’

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but
no children; and they entered the neighborhood
with the usual fair report of being very respecta¬
ble, agreeable people.

MANSFIELD PARK.

33

The time was now come when Sir Thomas ex¬
pected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their
niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation and
the improvement in Fanny’s age seeming not
merely to do away any former objection to their
living together, but even to give it the most de¬
cided eligibility; and as his own circumstances
were rendered less fair than heretofore by some
recent losses on his West India estate, in addi¬
tion to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became
not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the
expense of her support, and the obligation of her
future provision. In the fulness of his belief that
such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability
to his wife; and the first time of the subject’s oc-
curing- to her again happening to be when Fanny
was present, she calmly observed to her: “So,
Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with
my sister. How shall you like it? ”

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than
repeat her aunt’s words, “ Going to leave you? ”

“Yes, my dear, why should you be astonished?
You have been five years with us, and my sister
always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns all
the same.”

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had
been unexpected. She had never received kindness
from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.

“I shall be very sorry to go away,” said she,
with a faltering voice.

“Yes, I dare say you will; that’s natural
enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex
von. i. — 3

34

MANSFIELD PARK.

you since you came into this house as any creature
in the world.”

“ I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said Fanny,
modestly.

“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always
found you a very good girl.”

“ And am I never to live here again? ”

“Never, my dear; hut you are sure of a com¬
fortable home. It can make very little difference
to you, whether you are in one house or the other. ’ ’

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart :
she could not feel the difference to be so small, she
could not think of living with her aunt with any¬
thing like satisfaction. As soon as she met with
Edmund, she told him her distress.

“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to
happen which I do not like at all; and though you
have often persuaded me into being reconciled to
things that I disliked at first, you will not he able
to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my
aunt Norris.”

“ Indeed! ”

“Yes, my aunt Bertram has just told me so.
It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park,
and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as
she is removed there.”

“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not un¬
pleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one.”

“ Oh, cousin! ”

“It has everything else in its favor. My aunt
is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you.
She is choosing a friend and companion exactly
where she ought, and I am glad her love of money

MANSFIELD PARK.

35

does not interfere. You will be what you ought
to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very
much, Fanny.”

“ Indeed it does; I cannot like it. I love this
house and everything in it; I shall love nothing
there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with
her.”

“ I can say nothing for her manner to you as a
child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly
so. She never knew how to be pleasant to chil¬
dren. But you are now of an age to be treated
better; I think she is behaving better already ; and
when you are her only companion, you must be im¬
portant to her.”

“I can never be important to any one.”

“What is to prevent you?”

“Everything. My situation — my foolishness
and awkwardness.”

“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my
dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow
of either, but in using the words so improperly.
There is no reason in the world why you should
not be important where you are known. You have
good sense and a sweet temper, and I am sure you
have a grateful heart, that could never receive
kindness without wishing to return it. I do not
know any better qualifications for a friend and
companion. ’ ’

“You are too kind,” said Fanny, coloring at
such praise; “how shall I ever thank you as I
ought, for thinking so well of me? Oh, cousin, if
I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness
to the last moment of my life.”

S 6

MANSFIELD PARK.

“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to he r»
membered at such a distance as the "White House.
You speak as if you were going two hundred miles
off, instead of only across the park; but you will
belong to us almost as much as ever. The two
families will be meeting every day in the year.
The only difference will be that, living with your
aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as
you ought to be. Here there are too many whom
you can hide behind; but with her you will be
forced to speak for yourself.”

“ Oh, do not say so.”

“ I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs.
Norris is much better fitted than my mother for
having the charge of you now. She is of a temper
to do a great deal for anybody she really interests
herself about, and she will force you to do justice
to your natural powers.”

Fanny sighed, and said: “I cannot see things
as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right
rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to
you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If
I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it
would be delightful to feel myself of consequence
to .^anybody ! — Here I know I am of none, and
yet I love the place so well.”

“ The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit,
though you quit the house. You will have as free
a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even
your constant little heart need not take fright at
such a nominal change. You will have the same
walks to frequent, the same library to choose from,
the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

37

“Very true. Yes, dear old gray pony. Ah,
cousin, when I remember how much I used to
dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it
talked of as likely to do me good (oh, how I
have trembled at my uncle’s opening his lips if
horses were talked of); and then think of the kind
pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my
fears, and convince me that I should like it after
a little while, and feel how right you proved to
be, — I am inclined to hope you may always
prophesy as well.”

“ And I am quite convinced that your being
with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as
riding has been for your health, and as much for
your ultimate happiness too.”

So ended their discourse, which, for any very
appropriate service it could render Fanny, might
as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not
the smallest intention of taking her. It had never
occurred to her on the present occasion but as a
thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent its
being expected, she had fixed on the smallest hab¬
itation which could rank as genteel among the
buildings of Mansfield parish; the White House
being only just large enough to receive herself and
her servants, and allow a spare room for a friend,
of which she made a very particular point. The
spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been
wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room
for a friend was now never forgotten. Not all her
precautions, however, could save her from being
suspected of something better; or perhaps, her
very display of the importance of a spare room

38

MANSFIELD PARK.

might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really
intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought
the matter to a certainty, by carelessly observing
to Mrs. Norris, —

“I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee
any longer, when Fanny goes to live with you? ”

Mrs. Norris almost started. “Live with me,
dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean? ”

“Is not she to live with you? I thought you
had settled it with Sir Thomas? ”

‘ 1 Me ! never. I never spoke a syllable about it
to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with
me ! — the last thing in the world for me to think of,
or for anybody to wish that really knows us both.
Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me,
a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything,
my spirits quite broken down, — what could I do
with a girl at her time of life; a girl of fifteen!
the very age of all others to need most attention
and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the
test. Sure, Sir Thomas could not seriously expect
such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much my friend.
Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would
propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to
you about it?”

“ Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought
it best.”

“But what did he say? He could not say he
wished me to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart
he could not wish me to do it.”

“No, he only said he thought it very likely, —
and I thought so too. We both thought it would
be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,

MANSFIELD PARK.

39

there is no more to be said. She is no incum¬
brance here.”

“Dear sister! If you consider my unhappy
state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here
am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best
of husbands, my health gone in attending and
nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my peace
in this world destroyed, with barely enough to
support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and
enable me to live so as not to disgrace the memory
of the dear departed, — what possible comfort could
I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny?
If I could wish it for my own sake, I would not do
so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is in good
hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle
through my sorrows and difficulties as I can.”

“Then you will not mind living by yourself
quite alone? ”

“Dear Lady Bertram! what am I fit for but
solitude? Now and then I shall hope to have a
friend in my little cottage (I shall always have a
bed for a friend) ; but the most part of my future
days will be spent in utter seclusion. If I can
but make both ends meet, that s all I ask for.

“ I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with
you neither, — considering Sir Thomas says you
will have six hundred a year.”

“ Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I
cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench
where I can, and learn to be a better manager. 1
have been a liberal housekeeper enough, but I
shall not be ashamed to practise economy now.
My situation is as much altered as my income. A

40

MANSFIELD PARK.

great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris
as clergyman of the parish that cannot he expected
from me. It is unknown how much was consumed
in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the
White House matters must be better looked after.

I must live within my income, or I shall be mis¬
erable ; and I own it would give me great satisfac¬
tion to be able to do rather more, — to lay by a
little at the end of the year.”

“I dare say you will. You always do, don’t
you? ”

“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to
those that come after me. It is for your children’s
good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody else
to care for; but I should be very glad to think I
could leave a little trifle among them worth their
having.”

“You are very good, but do not trouble yourself
about them. They are sure of being well pro¬
vided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.”

“Why, you know Sir Thomas’s means will be
rather straitened, if the Antigua estate is to make
such poor returns.”

“Oh, that will soon be settled. Sir Thomas
has been writing about it, I know.”

‘^Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris, mov¬
ing to go, “I can only say that my sole desire is
to be of use to your family; and so if Sir Thomas
should ever speak again about my taking Fanny,
you will be able to say that my health and spirits
put it quite out of the question, — besides that, I
really should not have a bed to give her, for I
must keep a spare room for a friend.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

41

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conver¬
sation to her husband to convince him how much
he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and she
was from that moment perfectly safe from all ex¬
pectation, or the slightest allusion to it from him.
He could not hut wonder at her refusing to do
anything for a niece whom she had been so forward
to adopt; hut as she took early care to make him,
as well as Lady Bertram, understand that what¬
ever she possessed was designed for their family,
he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which at
the same time that it was advantageous and com¬
plimentary to them would enable him better to
provide for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learned how unnecessary had been
her fears of a removal ; and her spontaneous, un¬
taught ' felicity on the discovery conveyed some
consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in
what he had expected to he so essentially service¬
able to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the
White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage;
and these events over, everything at Mansfield
went on for some time as usual.

The Grants, showing a disposition to be friendly
and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main
among their new acquaintance. They had their
faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The
Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a
good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead
of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gai e
her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield
Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices.
Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of

42

MANSFIELD PARK.

such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and
eggs that were regularly consumed in the house.
“Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than
herself, — nobody more hated pitiful doings, — the
Parsonage she believed had never been wanting in
comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad char¬
acter in her time ; but this was a way of going on
that she could not understand. A fine lady in a
country parsonage was quite out of place. Her
storeroom she thought might have been good
enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where
she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant
had ever had more than five thousand pounds.”

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to
this sort of invective. She could not enter into
the wrongs of an economist, hut she felt all the
injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well
settled in life without being handsome, and ex¬
pressed her astonishment on that point almost as
often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris
discussed the other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year
before another event arose of such importance in
the family as might fairly claim some place in the
thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir
Tito mas found it expedient to go to Antigua him¬
self, for the better arrangement of his affairs ; and
he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of
detaching him from some bad connections at home.
They left England with the probability of -being
nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary
light, and the hope of its utility to his son recon-

MANSFIELD PAKK.

43

ciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the rest
of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the
direction of others at their present most interest¬
ing time of life. He could not think Lady Ber¬
tram quite equal to supply his place with them, or
rather to perform what should have been her own ;
but in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention and in Ed¬
mund’s judgment he had sufficient confidence to
make him go without fears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her
husband leave her; hut she was not disturbed by
any alarm for his safety or solicitude for his com¬
fort, being one of those persons who think nothing
can be dangerous or difficult or fatiguing to any¬
body but- themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on
the occasion, — • not for their sorrow, but for their
want of it. Their father was no object of love to
them; he had never seemed the friend of their
pleasures, and his absence was unhappily most
welcome. They were relieved by it from all re¬
straint; and without aiming at one gratification
that would probably have been forbidden by Sir
Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their
own disposal, and to haye every indulgence within
their reach. Fanny’s relief and her consciousness
of it were quite equal to her cousin’s; but a more
tender nature suggested that her feelings were un¬
grateful, and she really grieved because she could
not grieve. 11 Sir Thomas, who had done so much
for her and her brothers, and who wras gone per¬
haps never to return! that she should see him go
without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility. ”

44

MANSFIELD PARK.

He had said to her, moreover, on the very last
morning, that he hoped she might see William
again in the course of the ensuing winter, and had
charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield
as soon as the squadron to which he belonged
should he known to be in England. u This was
so thoughtful and kind! ” and would he only have
smiled upon her and called her “ my dear Eanny,
while he said it, every former frown or cold ad¬
dress might have been forgotten. But he had
ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mor¬
tification, by adding, “If William does come to
Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him
that the many years which have passed since you
parted have not been spent on your side entirety
without improvement, — though I fear he must
find his sister at sixteen in some respects too
much like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly
over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and
her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her
down as a hypocrite.

CHAPTER IV.

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his
time at home that he could he only nominally
missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to
find how very well they did even without Ins
father, —how well Edmund could supply his place
in carving, talking to the steward, writing to the
attorney, settling with the servants, and equally
saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion in
every particular hut that of directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers sa e
arrival in Antigua, after a favorable voyage was
received; though not before Mrs. Norris had been
indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to
make Edmund participate them whenever she could
get him alone; and as she depended on being tie
first person made acquainted with any fatal catas¬
trophe, she had already arranged the manner of
breaking it to all the others, when Sir Thomas s
assurances of their both being alive and well made
it necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate

called for; the accounts continued perfect J g0'' ,
and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gayeties for her
nieces, assisting their toilettes, displaying eir

46

MANSFIELD PARK.

accomplishments, and looking about for their fu¬
ture husbands, had so much to do as, in addition
to all her own household cares, some interference
in those of her sister, and Mrs. Grant’s wasteful
doings to overlook, left her very little occasion to
be occupied even in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established
among the belles of the neighborhood; and as they
joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements a man¬
ner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general
civility and obligingness, they possessed its favor
as well as its admiration. Their vanity was in
such good order that they seemed to be quite free
from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the
praises attending such behavior, secured and
brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen
them in believing the / had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her
daughters. She was too indolent even to ac¬
cept a mother’s gratification in witnessing their
success and enjoyment at the expense of any per¬
sonal trouble ; and the charge was made over to her
sister, who desired nothing better than a post of
such honorable representation, and very thor¬
oughly relished the means it afforded her of mix¬
ing in society without having horses to hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the sea¬
son; but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her
aunt’s companion, when they called away the rest
of the family; and as Miss Lee had left Mansfield,
she naturally became everything to Lady Bertram
during the night of a ball or a party. She talked
to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tran-

MANSFIELD PARK.

47

quill ity of such evenings, her perfect security in
such a tete-a-tete from any sound of unkindness,
was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had
seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrass¬
ments. As to her cousins’ gayeties, she loved to
hear an account of them, especially of the balls
and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought
too lowly of her own situation to imagine she
should ever be admitted to the same, and listened
therefore without an idea of any nearer concern in
them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable win¬
ter to her; for though it brought no William to
England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was
worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued
friend the old gray pony, and for some time she
was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as
well as in her affections; for in spite of the ac¬
knowledged importance of her riding on horseback,
no measures were taken for mounting her again,
“ because,” as it was observed by her aunts, “ she
might ride one of her cousins’ horses at any time
when they did not want them; ” and as the Miss
Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine
day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging
manners to the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that
time, of course, never came. They took their
cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and
May; and Fanny either sat at home the whole
day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength
at the instigation of the other, —Lady Bertram
holding exercise to be as unnecessary for every¬
body as it was unpleasant to herself; and

48

MANSFIELD PARK.

Norris, who was walking all day, thinking every¬
body ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent
at this time, or the evil would have been earlier
remedied. When he returned, to understand how
Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects,
there seemed with him but one thing to be done ;
and that “ Fanny must have a horse” was the
resolute declaration with which he opposed what¬
ever could be urged by the supineness of his
mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it
appear unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help
thinking that some steady old thing might be
found among the numbers belonging to tbe Park,
that would do vastly well; or that one might be
borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr.
Grant might now and then lend them the pony
he sent to the post. She could not but consider it
as absolutely unnecessary and even improper, that
Fanny should have a regular lady’s horse of her
own, in the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir
Thomas had never intended it; and she must say
that to be making such a purchase in his absence,
and adding to the great expenses of his stable at
a time when a large part of his income was unset¬
tle^, seemed to her very unjustifiable. “ Eanny
must have a horse,” was Edmund’s only reply.
Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light.
Lady Bertram did; she entirely agreed with her
son as to the necessity of it, and as to its be¬
ing considered necessary by his father: she only
pleaded against there being any hurry; she only
wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas’s return, and
then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself. He

MANSFIELD PARK.

49

would be at home in September, and where would
be the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with
his aunt than with his mother, as evincing least
regard for her niece, he could not help paying more
attention to what she said, and at length deter¬
mined on a method of proceeding which would ob¬
viate the risk of his father’s thinking he had done
too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny
the immediate means of exercise, which he could
not bear she should be without. He had three
horses of his own, but not one that would carry a
woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a
useful road-horse: this third he resolved to ex¬
change for one that his cousin might ride; he
knew where such a one was to be met with ; and
having once made up his mind, the whole business
was soon completed. The new mare proved a
treasure ; with a very little trouble, she became
exactly calculated for the purpose, and Fanny was
then put in almost full possession of her. She had
not supposed before, that anything could ever suit
her like the old gray pony; but her delight in Ed¬
mund’s mare was far beyond any former pleasure
of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving
in the consideration of that kindness from which
her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her words to
express. She regarded her cousin as an exam¬
ple of everything good and great, as possessing
worth which no one but herself could ever appre¬
ciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from her
as no feelings could be strong enough to pay.
Her sentiments towards him were compounded
VOL. i. — 4

50

MANSFIELD PARK.

of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding,
and tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as
fact, the property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could
tolerate its being for Fanny’s use; and had Lady
Bertram ever thought about her own objection
again, he might have been excused in her eyes
for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s return in Sep¬
tember, — for when September came, Sir Thomas
was still abroad, and without any near prospect
of finishing his business. Unfavorable circum¬
stances had suddenly arisen at a moment when
he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards
England ; and the very great uncertainty in which
everything was then involved determined him
on sending home his son, and waiting the final
arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely,
bringing an excellent account of his father’s
health; but to very little purpose, as far as Mrs.
Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s sending
away his son seemed to her so like a parent’s
care, under the influence of a foreboding of evil
to himself, that she could not help feeling dread¬
ful presentiments; and as the long evenings of
autumn came on, was so terribly haunted by
these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage,
as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining¬
room of the Park. The return of winter engage¬
ments, however, was not without its effect; and
in the course of their progress her mind became
so pleasantly occupied in superintending the for¬
tunes of her eldest niece as tolerably to quiet
her nerves. “If poor Sir Thomas were fated

MANSFIELD PARK.

51

never to return, it would be peculiarly consoling
to see their dear Maria well married,” she very
often thought; always when they were in the
company of men of fortune, and particularly on
the introduction of a young man who had recently
succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest
places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with
the beauty of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined
to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was
a heavy young man, with not more than common
sense; but as there was nothing disagreeable in
his figure or address, the young lady was well
pleased with her conquest. Being now in her
twenty-first year, Maria Bertram was beginning
to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage
with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoy¬
ment of a larger income than her father’s as well
as insure her the house in town, which was now
a prime object, it became, by the same rule of
moral obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr.
Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most
zealous in promoting the match, by every sugges¬
tion and contrivance likely to enhance its desir¬
ableness to either party; and, among other means,
by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman’s
mother, who at present lived with him, and to
whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through
ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning
visit. It was not long before a good understand¬
ing took place between this lady and herself.
Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desi¬
rous that her son should marry, and declared

52

MANSFIELD PARK.

that of all the young ladies she had ever seen,
Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities
and accomplishments, the best adapted to make
him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compli¬
ment, and admired the nice discernment of charac¬
ter uyhich could so well distinguish merit. Maria
was indeed the pride and delight of them all, —
perfectly faultless, an angel, — and of course, so
surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her
choice; but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris could
allow herself to decide on so short an acquaint¬
ance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young
man to deserve and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper num¬
ber of balls, the young people justified these opin¬
ions; and an engagement, with a due reference to
the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to
the satisfaction of their respective families, and of
the general lookers-on of the neighborhood, who
had for many weeks past felt the expediency of
Mr. Rushworth’s marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent
could be received; but in the mean while, as no
one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure in the
collection, the intercourse of the two families was
canned on without restraint, and no other attempt
made at secrecy than Mrs. Norris’s talking of it
everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at
present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who
could see a fault in the business; but no represen¬
tation of his aunt’s could induce him to find Mr.
Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow

MANSFIELD PARK.

53

his sister to be the best judge other own happiness,
but he was not pleased that her happiness should
centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth’s com¬
pany, “If this man had not twelve thousand a
year, he would be a very stupid fellow.”

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the
prospect of an alliance so unquestionably advanta¬
geous, and of which he heard nothing but the per¬
fectly good and agreeable. It was a connection
exactly of the right sort, —in the same county
and the same interest, — and his most hearty con¬
currence was conveyed as soon as possible. He
only conditioned that the marriage should not take
place before his return, which he was again looking
eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had
strong hopes of settling everything to his entire
satisfaction, and leaving Antigua before the end of
the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of
July; and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth
year, when the society of the village received an
addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant,
a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the children of her
mother by a second marriage. They were young
people of fortune. The son had a good estate m
Norfolk; the daughter twenty thousand pounds.
As children, their sister had always been very fond
of them; hut as her own marriage had been soon
followed by the death of their common parent,
which left them to the care of a brother of their
father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she
had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle’s

54

MANSFIELD PARK.

house they had found a kind home. Admiral and
Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at
least, were no further adverse in their feelings
than that each had their favorite, to whom they
showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Ad¬
miral delighted- in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted
on the girl; and it was the lady’s death which now
obliged her protegee, after some months’ further
trial at her uncle’s house, to find another home.
Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct,
who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring
his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs.
Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal of
coming to her, — a measure quite as welcome on one
side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs.
Grant, having by this time run through the usual
resources of ladies residing in the country without
a family of children, — having more than filled
her favorite sitting-room with pretty furniture,
and made a choice collection of plants and poultry,
— was very much in want of some variety at home.
The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had
always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as
long^as she remained single, wxis highly agreeable;
and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should
not satisfy the habits of a young woman who had
been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar
apprehensions, though they arose principally from
doubts of her sister’s style of living and tone of
society ; and it was not till after she had tried in
vain to persuade her brother to settle with her at

MANSFIELD PARK.

55

his own country house, that she could resolve to
hazard herself among her other relations. To any¬
thing like a permanence of abode or limitation of
society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, a great
dislike : he could not accommodate his sister in an
article of such importance; but he escorted her
with the utmost kindness into Northamptonshire,
and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at
half an hour’s notice, whenever she were weary of
the place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side.
Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness
or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked the
gentleman, and a house commodious and well-fitted
up; and Mrs. Grant received in those whom she
hoped do love better than ever, a young man and
woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary
Crawford was remarkably pretty; Henry, though
not handsome, had air and countenance ; the man¬
ners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs.
Grant immediately gave them credit for everything
else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was
her dearest object; and having never been able to
glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed
the power of being proud of her sister’s. She had
not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable
match for her; she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the
eldest son of a Baronet was not too good for a girl
of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance
and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw iu
her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman,
Mary had not been three hours in the house before
she told her what she had planned.

56

MANSFIELD PARK.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such
consequence so very near them, and not at all dis¬
pleased, either at her sister’s early care or the
choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object,
provided she could marry well; and having seen
Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that objection
could no more be made to his person than to his •
situation in life. While she treated it as a joke,
therefore, she did not forget to think of it seri¬
ously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

“ And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have
thought of something to make it quite complete.

I should dearly love to settle you both in this
country; and therefore, Henry, you shall marry
the youngest Miss Bertram, — a nice, handsome,
good-humored, accomplished girl, who will make
you very happy.”

Henry bowed, and thanked her.

“ My dear sister,” said Mary, “if you can per¬
suade him into anything of the sort, it will be a
fresh matter of delight to me to find myself allied
to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that
you have not half-a-dozen daughters to dispose of.
If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must
1*1 ve the address of a Frenchwoman. All that
English abilities can do has been tried already. I
have three very particular friends who have been
all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
which they, their mothers (very clever women), as
well as my dear aunt and myself, have taken to
reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is in¬
conceivable ! He is the most horrible flirt that
can be imagined. If your Miss Bertrams do not

MANSFIELD PARK.

57

like to have their hearts broke, let them avoid
Henry. ’ ’

“My dear brother, I will not believe this of
you.

“No, I am sure you are too good. You will be
kinder than Mary. You will allow for the doubts
of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious
temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a
hurry. Nobody can think more highly of the ma¬
trimonial state than myself. I consider the bless¬
ing of a wife as most justly described in those
discreet lines of the poet, ‘ Heaven’s last, best
gift.’ ”

“There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on
one word, and only look at his smile! I assure you
he is very detestable, — the Admiral’s lessons have
quite spoiled him.”

“I pay very little regard,” said Mrs. Grant,
“ to what any young person says on the subject of
marriage. If they profess a disinclination for it,
I only set it down that they have not yet seen the
right person.”

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Craw¬
ford on feeling no disinclination to the state
herself.

“Oh, yes, I am not at all ashamed of it. I
would have everybody marry if they can do it
properly. I do not like to have people throw them¬
selves away; hut everybody should marry as soon
as they can do it to advantage.”

CHAPTER V.

The young people were pleased with each other
from the first. On each side there was much to
attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as
early an intimacy as good manners would warrant.
Miss Crawford’s beauty did her no disservice with
the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome
themselves to dislike any woman for being so too,
and were almost as much charmed as their brothers
with her lively dark eye, clear brown complexion,
and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full
formed, and fair, it might have been more of a
+rial: hut as it was, there could be no comparison;
and she was most allowably a sweet pretty girl,
while they were the finest young women in the
country.

Her brother was not handsome : no, wdien they
first saw him, he was absolutely plain, black and
plain; but still he was the gentleman, with a
pleasing address. The second meeting proved
him not so very plain: he was plain, to be sure;
but then he had so much countenance, and his
teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that
one soon forgot he was plain; and after a third
interview, after dining in company with him at
the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be
called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most
agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,

MANSFIELD PARK.

59

and they were equally delighted with him. Miss
Bertram’s engagement made him in equity the
property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware;
and before he had been at Mansfield a week she
was quite ready to be fallen in love with.

Maria’s notions on the subject were more con¬
fused and indistinct. She did not want to see or
understand. “ There could be no harm in her
liking an agreeable man, — everybody knew her
situation, -—Mr. Crawford must take care of him¬
self.” Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any
danger: the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing,
and were ready to be pleased; and he began with
no object but of making them like him. He did not
want them to die of love; but with sense and
temper which ought to have made him judge and
feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on
such points.

“I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sis¬
ter,” said he, as he returned from attending them
to their carriage after the said dinner visit; “-they
are very elegant, agreeable girls.”

“So they are, indeed, and I am delighted to
hear you say it. But you like Julia best.”

“ Oh, yes, I like Julia best.”

“But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in
general thought the handsomest.”

“ So I should suppose. She has the advantage
in every feature, and I prefer her countenance;
but I like Julia best. Miss Bertram is certainly
the handsomest, and I have found her the most
agreeable; but I shall always like Julia best, be¬
cause you order me.”

60

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ I shall not talk to you, Henry, but J know
you will like her best at last.’’

“Do not I tell you that I like her best at
first? ”

“And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged.
Remember that, my dear brother. Her choice
is made.”

“Yes, and I like her the better for it. An
engaged woman is always more agreeable than a
disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her
cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all
her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is
safe with a lady engaged; no harm can be done.”

“Why, as to that, Mr. Rush worth is a very
good sort of young man, and it is a great match
for her.”

“But Miss Bertram does not care three straws
for him; that is your opinion of your intimate
friend. I do not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss
Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth.
I could see it in her eyes, when he was mentioned.
I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she
would ever give her hand without her heart.”

“ Mary, how shall we manage him? ”

X “We must leave him to himself, I believe.
Talking does no good. He will be taken in at
last.”

“But I would not have him taken in, I would
not have him duped; I would have it all fair and
honorable.”

“Oh dear, — let him stand his chance and be
taken in. It will do just as well. Everybody is
taken in at some period or other.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

61

“Not always in marriage, dear Mary.”

“In marriage especially. With all due respect
to such of the present company as chance to he
married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in
a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when
they marry. Look where I will, I see that it is
so; and I feel that it must be so, when I consider
that it is, of all transactions, the one in which
people expect most from others, and are least
honest themselves.”

“ Ah! You have been in a had school for matrk
mony, in Hill Street.”

“ My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love
the state; hut, however, speaking from my own
observation, it is a manoeuvring business. I
know so many who have married in the full ex¬
pectation and confidence of some one particular
advantage in the connection, or accomplishment or
good quality in the person, who have found them¬
selves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put
up with exactly the reverse ! What is this but a
take in? ”

“My dear child, there must be a little imagina¬
tion here. I beg your pardon, hut I cannot quite
believe you. Depend upon it, you see but half.
iTou see the evil, but you do not see the consola¬
tion. There will he little rubs and disappoint¬
ments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too
much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails,
human nature turns to another: if the first calcu¬
lation is wrong, we make a second better; we find
comfort somewhere, — and those evil-minded ob¬
servers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little,

62

MANSFIELD PARK.

are more taken in and deceived than the parties
themselves.”

“Well done, sister! I honor your esprit du
corps. When I am a wife, I mean to be just as
stanch myself; and I wish my friends in gen¬
eral would be so too. It would save me many
a heart-ache.”

“You are as bad as your brother, Mary; hut
we will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure you
both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,
and we will cure you.”

The Crawfords, without wanting to he cured,
were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied
with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry
equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come,
intending to spend only a few days with them;
but Mansfield promised well, and there was noth¬
ing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs.
Grant to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant
was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a
talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is
always pleasant society to an indolent, stay-at-
home man; and Mr. Crawford’s being his guest
was an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams’ admiration of Mr. Craw¬
ford was more rapturous than anything which Miss
Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel. She
acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams
were very fine young men, that two such young
men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners, particularly those of the
eldest, were very good. He had been much in
London, and had more liveliness and gallantry

MANSFIELD PARK.

63

than Edmund, and must therefore be preferred;
and, indeed, his being the eldest was another
strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment
that she should like the eldest best. She knew it
was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant,
indeed, at any rate; he was the sort of young man
to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of the
kind to be oftener found agreeable than some en¬
dowments of a higher stamp, for he had easy man¬
ners, excellent 'spirits, a large acquaintance, and
a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield
Park,, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this.
Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his situation
might do. She looked about her with due consid¬
eration, >nd found almost everything in his favor,
— a park, a real park five miles round ; a spacious
modern-built house, so well placed and well
screened as to deserve to be in any collection of
engravings of gentlemen’s seats in the kingdom,
and wanting only to be completely new furnished;
pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agree¬
able man himself, — with the advantage of being
tied up from much gaming at present, by a promise
to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter.
It might do very well : she believed she should
accept him; and she began accordingly to interest
herself a little about the horse which he had to
run at the B - races.

These races were, to, call him away not long after
their acquaintance began; and as it appeared that
the family did not, from his usual goings on, ex¬
pect him back again for many weeks, it would

64

MANSFIELD PARK.

bring his passion to an early proof. Much was
said on his side to induce her to attend the races,
and schemes were made for a large party to them,
with all the eagerness of inclination; but it would
only do to he talked of.

And Fanny, — what was she doing and thinking
all this while, and what was her opinion of the
new-comers? Few young ladies of eighteen could
he less called on to speak their opinion than
Fanny. In a quiet way, very little attended to,
she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Craw¬
ford’s beauty; but as she still continued to think
Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of- her two
cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary,
she never mentioned him. The notice which she
excited herself was to this effect. “I begiu now
to understand you all, except Miss Price,” said
Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.
Bertrams. “Pray, is she out, or is she not? I
am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage with the
rest of you, which seemed like being out; and
yet she says so little that I can hardly suppose
she is.”

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed,
replied: “I believe I know what you mean, but
I will not undertake to answer the question. My
cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of
a woman, but the outs and not outs are beyond
me.”

“And yet, in general, nothing can be more
easily ascertained. The distinction is so broad.
Manners as well as appearance are, generally
speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could

MANSFIELD PARK.

65

not have supposed it possible to be mistaken as to
a girl’s being out or not. A girl not out has
always the same sort of dress, — a close bonnet, fox-
instance, — looks very dexnure, and never says a
wox-d. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you;
and except that it is sometimes carried a little too
far, it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet
and modest. The most objectionable part is that
the alteration of manners on being introduced into
company is frequently too sudden. They some'
times pass in such very little time fi-om reserve to
quite the opposite, — to confidence! That is the
faulty part of the present system. One does not
like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so imme¬
diately up to everything, — and perhaps when one
has seen her hardly able to speak the year before.
Mr. Bertram, I dare say you have sometimes met
with such changes.”

“ I believe I have: but this is hardly fair; I see
what you are at. You are quizzing me and Miss
Anderson.”

“No, indeed! Miss Anderson! I do not know
who or what you mean. I am quite in the dark.
But I will quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,
if you will tell me what about.”

‘ ‘ Ah ! you carry it off very well, but I caxxnot
be quite so far imposed on. You must have had
Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an al¬
tered young lady. You paint too accurately for
mistake. It was exactly so. The Andersons of
Baker Street. We were speaking of them the
other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard
me mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance
VOL. I. - 5

66

MANSFIELD PARK.

was precisely as this lady has represented it.
When Anderson first introduced me to his family,
about two years ago, his sister was not out, and I
could not get her to speak to me. I sat there an
hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only
her and a little girl or two in the room, the gover¬
ness being sick or run away, and the mother in
and out every moment with letters of business;
and I could hardly get a word or a look from
the young lady, — nothing like a civil answer, —
she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me
with such an air! I did not see her again for a
twelvemonth. She was then out. I met her at
Mrs. Holford’s, and did not recollect her. She
came up to me, claimed me as an acquaintance,
stared me out of countenance, and talked and
laughed till I did not know which way to look. I
felt that I must he the jest of the room at the
time; and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard
the story.”

1 ‘ And a very pretty story it is, and with more
truth in it, I dare say, than does credit to Miss
Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers
certainly have not yet got quite the right way of
Managing their daughters. I do not know where
the error lies. I do not pretend to set people
right, but I do see that they are often wrong.”

“ Those who are showing the world what female
manners should be,” said Mr. Bertram, gallantly,
“are doing a great deal to set them right.”

“The error is plain enough,” said the less
courteous Edmund; “such girls are ill brought
up. They are given wrong notions from the he-

MANSFIELD PARK.

67

ginning. They are always acting upon motives
of vanity, and there is no more real modesty in
their behavior before they appear in public than
afterwards.”

“I do not know,” replied Miss Crawford, hesi¬
tatingly. “Yes, I cannot agree with you there.
It is certainly the modestest part of the business.
It is much worse to have girls not out give them¬
selves the same airs and take the same liberties as
if they were, which I have seen done. That is
worse than anything, — quite disgusting! ”

“Yes, that is very inconvenient indeed,” said
Mr. Bertram. “It leads one astray, one does
not know what to do. The close bonnet and de¬
mure air you describe so well (and nothing was
ever juster) tell one what is expected; but I got
into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of
them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with
a friend last September, just after my return from
the West Indies. My friend Sneyd, — you have
heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund, — his father
and mother and sisters were there, all new to me.
When we reached Albion Place they were out : we
went after them, and found them on the pier,
Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their
acquaintance. I made my bow in form ; and as
Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached my¬
self to one of her daughters, walked by her side all
the way home, and made myself as agreeable as I
could, — the young lady perfectly easy in her
manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had
not a suspicion that I could be doing anything
wrong. They looked just the same, —both well

68

MANSFIELD PARK.

dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls;
hut I afterwards found that I had been giving all
my attention to the youngest, who was not out,
and had most excessively offended the eldest.
Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for
the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe,
has never forgiven me.”

“That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd!
Though I have no younger sister, I feel for her.
To be neglected before one’s time must he very
vexatious; hut it was entirely the mother’s fault.
Miss Augusta should have been with her gover¬
ness. Such half and half doings never prosper.
But now I must he satisfied about Miss Price.
Does she go to halls? Does she dine out every¬
where, as well as at my sister’s?”

“No,” replied Edmund, “I do not think she
has ever been to a ball. My mother seldom goes
into company herself, and dines nowhere hut with
Mrs. Grant; and Eanny stays at home with her.”

“Oh, then the point is clear. Miss Price is
not out.”

\

CHAPTER VI.

Mr. Bertram set off for - , and Miss Crawford

was prepared to find a great chasm in their society,
and to miss him decidedly in the meetings which
w'ere now becoming almost daily between the fami¬
lies 5 and on their all dining together at the Park
soon after his going, she retook her chosen place
near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to
feel a most melancholy difference in the change of
masters. It would be a very flat business, she
was sure. In comparison with his brother, Ed¬
mund would have nothing to say. The soup
would he sent round in a most spiritless manner,
wine drank without any smiles or agreeable tri¬
fling, and the venison cut up without supplying
one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a
single entertaining story about “my friend such a
one.” She must try to find amusement in what
was passing at the upper end of the table, and in
observing Mr. Kushworth, who was now making
his appearance at Mansfield for the first time since
the Crawfords’ arrival. He had been visiting a
friend in a neighboring county, and that friend
having recently had his grounds laid out by an
improver, Mr. Rushwortli was returned with his
head full of the subject, and very eager to be im¬
proving his own place in the same way; and

70

MANSFIELD PARK.

though not saying much to the purpose, could talk
of nothing else. The subject had been already
handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in
the dining-parlor. Miss Bertram’s attention and
opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though
her deportment showed rather conscious superior¬
ity than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention
of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it,
gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented
her from being very ungracious.

“I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “ it
is the most complete thing! I never saw a place
so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not
know where I was. The approach now is one of
the finest things in the country; you see the house
in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I
got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a
prison, — quite a dismal old prison.”

“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A
prison, indeed! Sotherton Court is the noblest
old place in the world.”

“ It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond any¬
thing. I never saw a place that wanted so much
improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that
I do not know what can be done with it.”

‘fNo wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think
so at present,” said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris,
with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sotherton
will have every improvement in time which his
heart can desire.”

“ I must try to do something with it,” said Mr.
Rush worth, “ but X do not know what. I hope X
shall have some good friend to help me.”

MANSFIELD PARK,

71

‘‘Your best friend upon such an occasion,” said
Miss Bertram, calmly, “would be Mr. Repton, I
imagine. ”

“That is what I was thinking of. As he has
done so well by Smith, I think I had better have
him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.”

“Well, and if they were ten,” cried Mrs. Norris,
“ I am sure you need not regard it. The expense
need not be any impediment. If I were you, I
should not think of the expense; I would have
everything done in the best style, and made as
nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Court
deserves everything that taste and money can do.
You have space to work upon there, and grounds
that will well reward you. Tor my own part, if
I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size
of Sotherton, I should be always planting and im¬
proving, for naturally I am excessively fond of it.
It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt any¬
thing where I am now, with my little half acre.
It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more
room, I should take a prodigious delight in im¬
proving and planting. We did a vast deal in that
way at the Parsonage : we made it quite a different
place from what it was when we first had it. You
young ones do not remember much about it, per¬
haps : but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could
tell you what improvements we made ; and a great
deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr.
Norris’s sad state of health. He could hardly ever
get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and that dis¬
heartened me from doing several things that Sir
Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had not been

72

MANSFIELD PARK.

for that, we should have carried on the garden
wall, and made the plantation to shut out the
churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were
always doing something, as it was. It was only
the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris’s death,
that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,
which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting
to such perfection, sir,” addressing herself then to
Dr. Grant.

“ The tree thrives well beyond a doubt, madam,”
replied Dr. Grant. “The soil is good; and I never
pass it without regretting that the fruit should be
so little worth the trouble of gathering.”

“ Sir, it is a moor park, we bought it as a moor
park, and it cost us — that is, it was a present
from Sir Thomas; but I saw the bill, and I know
it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a moor
park. ”

“You were imposed on, ma’am,” replied Dr.
Grant; “these potatoes have as much the flavor of
a moor-park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It
is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot
is eatable, which none from my garden are.”

“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant, pre¬
tending to whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris,
“ that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural
taste of our apricot is; he is scarcely ever indulged
with one, for it is so valuable a fruit with a little
assistance, and ours is such a remarkably large,
fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves
my cook contrives to get them all.”

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was ap¬
peased; and for a little while other subjects took

MANSFIELD PARK.

73

place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr. Grant
and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their
acquaintance had begun in dilapidations, and their
habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began
again. “ Smith’s place is the admiration of all the
country; and it was a mere nothing before Repton
took it in hand. T think I shall have Repton.”

“Mr. Rushworth,” said Lady Bertram, “ if I
were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery.
One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine
weather.”

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her Ladyship
of his acquiescence, and tried to make out some¬
thing complimentary; but between his submission
to her taste, and his having always intended the
same himself, with the superadded objects of pro¬
fessing attention to the comfort of ladies in gen¬
eral, and of insinuating that there was one only
whom he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled;
and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech
by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however,
though not usually a great talker, had still more
to say on the subject next his heart. “ Smith has
not much above a hundred acres altogether in his
grounds, which is little enough, and makes it moie
surprising that the place- can have been so improved.
Now, at Sotherton, we have a good seven hundred,
without reckoning the water meadows; so that I
think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need
not despair. There have been two or three fine old
trees cut down that grew too near the house, and
it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes ma

74

MANSFIELD PARK.

think that liepton, or anybody of that sort, would
certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down, — the
avenue that leads from the west front to the top of
the hill, you know,” turning to Miss Bertram par¬
ticularly, as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought
it most becoming to reply, —

“The avenue! Oh, I do not recollect it. I
»eally know very little of Sotherton.”

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Ed¬
mund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who
had been attentively listening, now looked at him,
and said in a low voice, —

“ Cut down an avenue! What a pity ! Does not
it make you think of Cowper? ‘ Ye fallen avenues,
once more I mourn your fate unmerited.’ ”

He smiled as he answered, “lam afraid the
avenue stands a had chance, Eanny.”

“I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut
down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state;
but I do not suppose I shall.”

“Have you never been there? Ho, you never
can; and unluckily it is out of distance for a ride.
I wish we could contrive it.”

“Oh, it does not signify. Whenever I do see
it, you will tell me how it has been altered.”

CJ collect,” said Miss Crawford, “that Sother..
ton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur.
In any particular style of building? ”

“The house was built in Elizabeth’s time, and
is a large, regular brick building, — heavy, but re¬
spectable-looking, and has many good rooms. It
is ill-placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots
of the park; in that respect, unfavorable for im

MANSFIELD PARK.

75

provement. But the woods are fine, and there is
a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good
deal of. Mr. Bushworth is quite right, I think, in
meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no
doubt that it will be all done extremely well.”

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and
said to herself, “ He is a well-bred man; he makes
the best of it.”

“I do not wish to influence Mr. Bushworth,”
he continued; “ but had I a place to new-fashion,
I should not put myself into the hands of an im¬
prover. I would rather have an inferior degree of
beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progres¬
sively. I would rather abide by my own blunders
than by his.”

“You would know what you were about, of
course, -*r-but that would not suit me. I have no
eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are
before me ; and had I a place of my own in the
country, I should be most thankful to any Mr.
Bepton who would undertake it, and give me as
much beauty as he could for my money; and I
should never look at it till it was complete.”

“ It would be delightful to me to see the prog¬
ress of it all,” said Fanny.

“Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was
no part of my education; and the only dose I ever
had being administered by not the first favorite in
the world, has made me consider improvements in
hand as the greatest of nuisances. Three years
ago the Admiral, my honored uncle, bought a cot¬
tage at Twickenham for us all to spend our sum¬
mers in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite

76

MANSFIELD PARK.

in raptures : but it being excessively pretty, it was
soon found necessary to be improved; and for three
months we were all dirt and confusion, without a
gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for use. I
would have everything as complete as possible in
the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and
rustic seats innumerable: but it must be all done
without my care. Henry is different; he loves to
be doing.”

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom
he was much disposed to admire, speak so freely
of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of pro¬
priety, and he was silenced, till induced, by further
smiles and liveliness, to put the matter by for the
present.

“Mr. Bertram,” said she, “I have tidings of
my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at
Northampton; and there it has probably been these
ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have
so often received to the contrary.” Edmund ex¬
pressed his pleasure and surprise. “ The truth is,
that our inquiries were too direct, — we sent a ser¬
vant, we went ourselves; this will not do seventy
miles from London, — but this morning we heard
of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer,
and he told the miller, and the miller told the
butcher, and the butcher’s son-in-law left word
at the shop.”

“I am very glad that you have heard of it, by
whatever means, and hope there will be no further
delay.”

“I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you
think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or

MANSFIELD PARK

77

cart, — oh, no, nothing of that kind could he hired
in the village. I might as well have asked for
porters and a hand-barrow.”

“You would find it difficult, I dare say, just
now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to
hire a horse and cart? ”

“I was astonished to find what a piece of work
was made of it! To want a horse and cart in the

country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to
speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of
my dressing-closet without seeing one farmyard,
nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another,
I thought it would be only ask and have, and was
rather grieved that I could not give the advantage
to all. Guess my surprise, when I found that I
had been asking the most unreasonable, most im¬
possible thing in the world; had offended all the
farmers, all the laborers, all the hay in the parish.
As for Dr. Grant’s bailiff, I believe I had bet¬
ter keep out of his way; and my brother-in-law
himself, who is all kindness in general, looked
rather black upon me, when he found what I had
been at.”

“You could not be expected to have thought on
the subject before; but when you do think of it,
you must see the importance of getting in the
grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not
be so easy as you suppose, — our farmers are not in
the habit of letting them out; but in harvest
it must be quite out of their power to spare a

horse. ^ *

“ I shall understand all your ways in time; but
coming down with the true London maxim, that

78

MANSFIELD PARK

everything is to be got with money, I was a little
embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of
vour country customs. However, I am to have my
harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is good¬
nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche.

Will it not be honorably conveyed? ”

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favorite instru¬
ment, and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her.
Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and wished
for it very much.

“I shall be most happy to play to you both,”
said Miss Crawford, — “ at least, as long as you can
like to listen; probably much longer, for I dearly
love music myself, and where the natural taste is
equal, the player must always be best off, for she
is gratified in more ways than one. Now, Mr.
Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you
to tell him that my harp is come; he heard so
much of my misery without it. And you may
say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most
plaintive airs against his return in compassion to
his feelings, as I know his horse will lose.”

“If I write, I will say whatever you wish me;
but I do not at present foresee any occasion for
waiting.”

‘ ‘ No, I dare say ; nor if he were to be gone a
twelvemonth, would you ever write to him nor he
to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would
never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers
are ! You would not write to each other but upon
the most urgent necessity in the world; and when
obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse
is ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the

MANSFIELD PARK.

79

fewest possible words. You liave but one style
among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is
in every other respect exactly what a brother
should be, who loves me, consults me, confides in
me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has
never yet turned the page in a letter; and very
often it is nothing more than —

Dear Mary, — I am just arrived. Bath seems full,
and everything as usual.

Yours sincerely.

That is the true manly style, — that is a complete
brother’s letter.”

“ When they are at a distance from all their
family,” said Fanny, coloring for William’s sake,
“they^can write long letters.”

“ Miss Price has a brother at sea,” said Edmund,
“ whose excellence as a correspondent makes her
think you too severe upon us.

“At sea, has she? — In the king’s service, of

course.”

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the
story; but his determined silence obliged her to
relate her brother’s situation: her voice was ani¬
mated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign
stations he had been on ; but she could not mention
the number of years that he had been absent with¬
out tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly
wished him an early promotion. . }

“ Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain .
said Edmund, — £< Captain Marshall? You have a
large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?,

“Among admirals, large enough; but,' with

80

MANSFIELD PARK.

an air of grandeur, “we know very little of the
inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good
sort of men, hut they do not belong to us. Of
various admirals I could tell you a great deal, of
them and their flags, and the gradation of their
pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But in
general, I can assure you that they are all passed
over, and all very ill used. Certainly my home
at my uncle’s brought me acquainted with a circle
of admirals. Of Bears and Vices, I saw enough.
Now, do not he suspecting me of a pun, I entreat.”

Edmund again felt grave and only replied, “ It
is a noble profession.”

“Yes, the profession is well enough under two
circumstances, — if it make the fortune, and there
be discretion in spending it; hut in short, it is not
a favorite profession ot mine. It has never worn
an amiable form to me.”

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again
very happy in the prospect of hearing her play.

'The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile,
was still under consideration among the others;
and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing her
brother, though it was calling his attention from
Migs Julia Bertram.

“My dear Henry, have you nothing to say?
You have been an improver yourself; and from
what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any
place in England. Its natural beauties I am sure
are great. Everingham as it used to be was per¬
fect in my estimation ; such a happy fall of ground,
and such timber! What would not I give to see
it again! ”

MANSFIELD PARK.

81

“Nothing could he so gratifying to me as to
hear your opinion of it,” was his answer; “ but I
fear there would he some disappointment, — you
would not find it equal to your present ideas. In
extent it is a mere nothing, — you would be sur¬
prised at its insignificance; and as for improve¬
ment, there was very little for me to do, too
little, _ I should like to have been busy much
longer.”

“You are fond of the sort of thing? said

Julia.

“Excessively; hut what with the natural ad¬
vantages of the ground, which pointed out, even to
a very young eye, what little remained to he done,
and my own consequent resolutions, I had not
been of age three months before Everingham was
all that it is now. My plan was laid at West¬
minster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge,
and at one-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to
envy Mr. Bushworth for having so much happi¬
ness yet before him. I have been a devourer of

my own.” .

“Those who see quickly will resolve quickly ant

act quickly,” said Julia. “ You can never want
employment. Instead of envying Mr. Rusliwortli,
you should assist him with your opinion.

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this
speech, enforced it warmly, persuaded that no
judgment could he equal to her brother s; and
as Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise,
and gave it her full support, declaring that, in
her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult

VOL. I. — 6

82

MANSFIELD PARK.

with friends and disinterested advisers than im.
mediately to throw the business into the hands
of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very
ready to request the favor of Mr. Crawford’s assist¬
ance; and Mr. Crawford, after properly depreciat¬
ing his own abilities, was quite at his service in
any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then
began to propose Mr. Crawford’s doing him the
honor of coming over to Sotherton, and taking
a bed there; when Mrs. N orris, as if reading in
her two nieces’ minds their little approbation of
a plan which was to take Mr. Crawford away,
interposed with an amendment.

“There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford’s
willingness; but why should not more of us go?
Why should not we make a little party? Here
are many that would oe interested in your im¬
provements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and that
would like to hear Mr. Crawford’s opinion on
the spot, and that might be of some small use to
you with their opinions; and for my own part
I have been long wishing to wait upon your good
mother again. Nothing but having no horses of
my own could have made me so remiss; hut now
I epuhl go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rush-
worth while the rest of you walked about and
settled things, and then we could all return to
a late dinner here, or dine at .Sotherton, just as
might be most agreeable to your mother, and
have a pleasant drive home by moonlight. I
dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces
and me in his barouche, and Edmund can go

MANSFIELD PARK.

83

on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will
stay at borne witb you.”

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every
one concerned in tbe going was forward in ex¬
pressing their ready concurrence, excepting Ed¬
mund, who heard it all and said nothing.

CHAPTER VII*

“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss
Crawford now ? ’ ’ said Edmund the next day, af¬
ter thinking some time on the subject himself.
“How did you like her yesterday?”

“Very well, — very much. I like to hear hex-
talk. She entertains me 5 and she is so extremely
pretty that I have great pleasure in looking at
her.”

“It is her countenance that is so attractive.
She has a wonderful play of feature! But was
there nothing in her conversation that struck
you, Fanny, as not quite right?”

“Oh, yes, she ought not to have spoken of her
uncle as she did. I was quite astonished. An
uncle with whom she has been living so many
years, and who, whatever his faults may be, is so
very fond of her brother, treating him, they say,
quite like a son. I could not have believed it! ”

“I thought you would be struck. It was very
wrong, — very indecorous.”

“And very ungrateful, I think.”

“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know
that her uncle has any claim to her gratitude.
His wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of
her respect for her aunt’s memory which misleads
her here. She is awkwardly circumstanced, With

MANSFIELD PARK.

85

such warm feelings and lively spirits if must be
difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs.
Crawford, without throwing a shade on the Ad¬
miral. I do not pretend to know which was most
to blame in their disagreements, though the Ad¬
miral’s present conduct might incline one to the
side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable
that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt en¬
tirely. I do not censure her opinions; but there
certainly is impropriety in making them public.”

“ Do not you think,” said Fanny, after a little
consideration, “that this impropriety is a reflec¬
tion itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her niece lias
been entirely brought up by her? She cannot
have given her right notions of what was due to
the Admiral.”

“ That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose
the faults of the niece to have been those of the
aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the disad¬
vantages she has been under. But I think her
present home must do her good. Mrs. Grant’s man¬
ners are just what they ought to be. She speaks
of her brother with a very pleasing affection.”

“Yes, except as to his writing her such short
letters. She made me almost laugh; but I cannot
rate so very highly the love or good- nature of a
brother who will not give himself the trouble of
writing anything worth reading to his sisteis,
when they are separated. I am sure William
would never have used me so, under any circum¬
stances. And what right had she to suppose that
you would not write long letters when you were
absent? ”

86

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ The right of a lively mmd, Fanny, seizing
whatever may contribute to its own amusement or
that of others; perfectly allowable, when untinc¬
tured by ill humor or roughness; and there is not
a shadow of either in the countenance or manner of
Miss Crawford, — nothing sharp or loud or coarse.
She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances
we have been speaking of. There she cannot be
justified. I am glad you saw it all as I did.”

Having formed her mind and gained her affec¬
tions, he had a good chance of her thinking like
him; though at this period and on this subject
there began now to be some danger of dissimi¬
larity, for he was in a line of admiration of Miss
Crawford which might lead him where Fanny
could not follow. Miss Crawford’s attractions did
not lessen. The harp arrived, and rather added to
her beauty, wit, and good-humor; for she played
with the greatest obligingness, with an expression
and taste which were peculiarly becoming, and
there was something clever to he said at the close
of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every
day, to be indulged with his favorite instrument :
one morning secured an invitation for the next;
for Hie lady could not be unwilling to have a lis¬
tener, and everything was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as
elegant as herself; and both placed near a window
cut down to the ground, and opening on a little
lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of
summer, was enough to catch any man’s heart.
The season, the scene, the air, wrere all favorable
to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her

MANSFIELD PARK.

87

tambour frame were not without their use-, it was
all in harmony; and as everything will turn to ac¬
count when love is once set going, even the sand¬
wich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honors of it
were worth looking at. Without studying the
business, however, or knowing what he was about,
Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of
such intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to
the credit of the lady it may be added, that with¬
out his being a man of the world or an elder
brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the
gayeties of small talk, he began to be agreeable to
her. She felt it to be so, though she had not fore¬
seen and could hardly understand it ; for he was
not pleasant by any common rule, he talked no
nonsense, he paid no compliments, his opinions
were unbending, his attentions tranquil and sim¬
ple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity,
his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford
might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss
with herself. She did not think very much about
it, however: he pleased her for the present; she
liked to have him near her; it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was ai
the Parsonage every morning, — she would gladly
have been there too, might she have gone in unin¬
vited and unnoticed to hear the harp; neither
could she wonder that when the evening stroll
was over, and the two families parted again, he
should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and
her sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was
devoted to the ladies of the Park : but she thought
it a very bad exchange ; and if Edmund were not

88

MANSFIELD PARK.

there to mix the wine and water for her, would
rather go without it than not. She was a little
surprised that he could spend so many hours with
Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of
fault which he had already observed, and of which
she was almost always reminded by a something of
the same nature whenever she was in her company ;
but so it was. Edmund was fond of speaking to
her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it
enough that the Admiral had since been spared;
and she scrupled to point out her own remarks to
him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The
first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned
her was the consequence of an inclination to learn
to ride, which the former caught soon after her
being settled at Mansfield, from the example of
the young ladies at the Park, and which, when
Edmund’s acquaintance with her increased, led to
his encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own
quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts, as
the best fitted for a beginner that either stable
could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was
designed by him to his cousin in this offer; she
was not to lose a day’s exercise by it. The mare
was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half
an hour before her rides were to begin ; and Fanny,
on its being first proposed, so far from feeling
slighted, was almost overpowered with gratitude
that he should be asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great
credit to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny.
Edmund, who had taken down the mare and pre¬
sided at the whole, returned with it in excellent

MANSFIELD PARK.

89

time, before either Fanny or the steady old coach¬
man, who always attended her when she rode with¬
out her cousins, was ready to set forward. The
second day’s trial was not so guiltless. Miss
Crawford’s enjoyment of riding was such that she
did not know how to leave off. Active and fear¬
less, and, though rather small, strongly made, she
seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure
genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was
probably added in Edmund’s attendance and in¬
structions, and something more in the conviction
of very much surpassing her sex in general by her
early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount.
Fanny was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris
was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and
still no borse was announced, no Edmund ap-
peared. To avoid her aunt, and look foi him, she
went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart,
were not within sight of each other; but by walk¬
ing fifty yards from the hall door she could look
down the park, and command a view of the Par¬
sonage and all its demesnes, gently rising beyond
the village road; and in Dr. Grant’s meadow she
immediately saw the group, — Edmund and Miss
Crawford, both on horseback, riding side by side,
Dr. and Mrs. Grant and Mr. Crawford, with two
or three grooms, standing about and looking on.
A happy party it appeared to her, — all interested
in one object, — cheerful beyond a doubt, for the
sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was
a sound which did not make her cheerful; she
wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt

90

MANSFIELD PARK.

a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the
meadow, she could not help watching all that
passed. At first Miss Crawford and her compan¬
ion made the circuit of the field, which was not
small, at a foot’s pace; then, at her apparent sug¬
gestion, they rose into a canter; and to Fanny’s
timid nature it was most astonishing to see how
well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped
entirely. Edmund was close to her, he was speak¬
ing to her, he was evidently directing her manage¬
ment of the bridle, he had hold of her hand; she
saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye
could not reach. She must not wonder at all this ;
what could he more natural than that Edmund
should be making himself useful, and proving his
good-nature by any one? She could not hut think,
indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have
saved him the trouble; that it would have been
particularly proper and becoming in a brother to
have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all
his boasted good-nature and all his coachmanship,
probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no
active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She
began to think it rather hard upon the mare to
have such double duty; if she were forgotten, the
poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a
little tranquillized, by seeing the party in the
meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on
horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass
through a gate into the lane, and so into the park,
and make towards the spot where she stood. She
began then to be afraid of appearing rude and im-

MANSFIELD PARK.

91

patient, and walked to meet them with a great
anxiety to avoid the suspicion.

“My dear Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as
soon as she was at all within hearing, “ I am come
to make my own apologies for keeping you waiting,
— but I have nothing in the world to say for my¬
self, — I knew it was very late, and that I was
behaving extremely ill ! and therefore, if you
please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must
always be forgiven, you know, because there is no
hope of a cure.”

Fanny’s answer was extremely civil, and Ed¬
mund added his conviction that she could be in no
hurry. “ For there is more than time enough for
my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,”
said he, “and you have been promoting her com¬
fort by 'preventing her from setting off half an
hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she
will not suffer from the heat as she would have
done then. I wish you may not be fatigued by so
much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself
this walk home.”

“No part of it fatigues me hut getting off this
horse, I assure you,” said she, as she sprang down
with his help; “I am very strong. Nothing ever
fatigues me hut doing what I do not like. Miss
Price, I give way to you with a very bad grace;
but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride,
and that I may have nothing but good to hear of
this dear, delightful, beautiful animal.”

The old coachman, who had been waiting about
with his' own horse, now joining them, Fanny was
lifted on hers, and they set off across another part

92

MANSFIELD PARK.

of the park; her feelings of discomfort not light¬
ened by seeing, as she looked back, that the others
were walking down the hill together to the village;
nor did her attendant do her much good by his
comments on Miss Crawford’s great cleverness as a
horsewoman, which he had been watching with an
interest almost equal to her own.

“ It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good
heart for riding! ” said he. “I never see one sit
a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought
of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you
first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord
bless me ! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas
first had you put on! ”

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also
celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by nature
with strength and courage was fully appreciated by
the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like
their own; her early excellence in it was like their
own, and they had great pleasure in praising it.

“I was sure she would ride well,” said Julia;
“she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat
as her brother’s.”

“Yes,” added Maria; “and her spirits are as
good, and she has the same energy of character. I
cannot but think that good horsemanship has a
great deal to do with the mind.”

When they parted at night, Edmund asked
Eanny whether she meant to ride the next day.

‘ ‘ Ho, I do not know, not if you want the mare, ’ ’
was her answer. “I do not want her at all for
myself, ’ ’ said he ; “ but whenever you are next in¬
clined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford

MANSFIELD PARK.

93

would be glad to have her for a longer time, — for
a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire
to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant
has been telling her of its fine views, and I have
no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But
any morning will do for this. She would he ex¬
tremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be
very wrong if she did. She rides only for pleasure ;
you for health.”

“I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,” said
Fanny; “I have been out very often lately, and
would rather stay at home. You know I am strong
enough now to walk very well.”

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s
comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took
places the next morning: the party included all
the young people hut herself, and was much en¬
joyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the
evening discussion. A. successful scheme of this
sort generally brings on another; and the having
been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for
going somewhere else the day after. There were
many other views to he shown; and though the
weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever
they wanted to go. A young party is always pro¬
vided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings suc¬
cessively were spent in this manner in showing the
Crawfords the country, and doing the honors of its
finest spots. Everything answered: it was all
gayety and good-humor, the heat only supplying
inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure,
till the fourth day, when the happiness of one
of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Ber

94

MANSFIELD PARK.

tram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited
to dine at the Parsonage, and she was excluded.
It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with per¬
fect good-humor, on Mr. Rushworth’s account,
who was partly expected at the Park that day; but
it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good
manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexa¬
tion and anger till she reached home. As Mr.
Rush worth did not come, the injury was increased,
and she had not even the relief of showing her
power over him; she could only be sullen to her
mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a
gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia
walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the even¬
ing air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of
what they found in the three ladies sitting there,
for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her
book, and Lady Bertram was half asleep; and even
Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s ill-humor,
and having asked one or two questions about the
dinner, which were not immediately attended to,
seemed almost determined to say no more. Eor a
few minutes the brother and sister were too eager
inMheir praise of the night and their remarks on
the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when
the first pause came, Edmund, looking around,
said, “But where is Eanny? Is she gone to
bed?”

“No, not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Norris;
“ she was here a moment ago.”

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other
end of the room, which was a very long one, told

MANSFIELD PARK.

95

them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began
scolding.

“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be
idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why
cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself
as we do? If you have no work of your own, I can
supply you from the poor basket. There is all the
new calico that was bought last week, not touched
yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting
it out. You should learn to think of other people;
and take my word for it, it is a shocking trick
for a young person to be always lolling upon a
sofa.”

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned
to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work
again-; and Julia, who was in high good-humor,
from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of
exclaiming, “I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as
little upon the sofa as anybody in the house.”

“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her
attentively, “ I am sure you have the headache! ”

She could not deny it, but said it was not very
bad.

“I can hardly believe you,” he replied; “I
know your looks too well. How long have you
had it? ”

“Since a little before dinner. It is nothing
but the heat.”

“ Did you go out in the heat? ”

“ Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs. Norris;
“would you have her stay within such a fine day
as this? Were not we all out? Even your mother
was out to-day for above an hour.”

96

MANSFIELD I'ARK.

“ Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her Ladyship,
who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Nor¬
ris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny ; “I was out above
an hour. I sat three quarters of an hour in the
flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses ; and very
pleasant it was, I assure you, hut very hot. It was
shady enough in the alcove, hut I declare I quite
dreaded the coming home again.”

“ Fanny has been cutting roses, has she? ”

“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this
year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough; hut
they were so full blown that one could not wait.”

“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined
Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; “hut I
question whether her headache might not he caught
then, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it
as standing and stooping in a hot sun ; hut I dare
say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her
have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to
have mine filled.”

“ She has got it,” said Lady Bertram: “she has
had it ever since she came back from your house
the second time.”

“ What! ” cried Edmund; “has she been walk¬
ing as well as cutting roses, — walking across the
hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am?
No wonder her head aches.”

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not
hear.

“I was afraid it would he too much for her,”
said Lady Bertram; “hut when the roses were
gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and
then you know they must be taken home.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

97

“ But were there roses enough to oblige her to
go twice? ”

“No; hut they were to he put into the spare
room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to
lock the door of the room and bring away the key,
so she was obliged to go again.”

Edmund got up and walked about the room,
saying, “And could nobody be employed on such
an errand hut Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am,
it has been a very ill-managed business.”

‘ ‘ I am sure I do not know how it was to have
been done better,” cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be
longer deaf, “unless I had gone myself, indeed;
but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was
talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your
mother’s dairymaid, by her desire, and had prom¬
ised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about
his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me
half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuse
me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really
I cannot do everything at once. And as for
Fanny’s just stepping down to my house for me, — it
is not much above a quarter of a mile, — I cannot
think I was unreasonable to ask it. How often
do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay,
and in all weathers too, and say nothing about
it? ”

“ I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma’am.”

“If Fanny would be more regular in her exer¬
cise, she would not be knocked up so soon. She
has not been out on horseback now this long while,
and I am persuaded that when she does not ride
she ought to walk. If she had been riding before,

VOL. I. - 7

98

MANSFIELD PARK.

I should not have asked it of her. But I thought
it would rather do her good after being stooping
among the roses; for there is nothing so refresh¬
ing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind; and
though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.
Between ourselves, Edmund,” nodding signifi¬
cantly at his mother, “it was cutting the roses
and dawdling about in the flower-garden that did
the mischief.”

“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the more
candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; “I
am very much afraid she caught the headache
there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody.
It was as much as I could bear myself. Sitting
and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from
the flower-beds, was almost too much for me.”

Edmund said no more to either lady; hut going
quietly to another table, on which the supper-tray
yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny,
and obliged her to drink the greater part. She
wished to he able to decline it; hut the tears,
which a variety of feelings created, made it easier
to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and
aunt, he was still more angry with himself. His
own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything
which they had done. Nothing of this would
have happened had she been properly considered;
hut she had been left four days together without
any choice of companions or exercise, and without
any excuse for avoiding whatever her unreasonable
aunts might require. He was ashamed to think
that for four days together she had not had the

MANSFIELD PARK.

99

power of riding, and very seriously resolved, how¬
ever unwilling he must he to check a pleasure of
Muss Crawford s, that it should never happen
again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on
the first evening of her arrival at the Park. The
state of her spirits had probably had its share in
her indisposition; for she had been feeling ne¬
glected, and been struggling against discontent
and envy for some days past. As she leaned on
the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might
not be seen, the pain of her mind had been much
beyond that in her head; and the sudden change
which Edmund’s kindness had then occasioned
made her hardly know how to support herself.

CHAPTER VIII.

Fanny’s rides recommenced the very next day;
and as it was a pleasant fresh -feeling morning,
less hot than the weather had lately been, Ed¬
mund trusted that her losses both of health and
pleasure would be soon made good. While she
was gone, Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his
mother, who came to be civil, and to show her
civility especially in urging the execution of
the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been
started a fortnight before, and which, in conse¬
quence of her subsequent absence from home, had
since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces
were all well pleased with its revival, and an
early day was named, and agreed to, provided
Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young
ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though
Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for
being so, they would neither authorize the
liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint
from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered
that the properest thing to be done was for him
to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call
on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether Wednesday
would suit him or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Craw¬
ford came in. Having been out some time, am]

MANSFIELD PARK.

101

taken a different route to the house, they had
not met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were
given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home.
The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course.
It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else
should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high
spirits about it; and Mrs. Bushworth, a well-
meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who
thought nothing of consequence, hut as it related
to her own and her son’s concerns, had not yet
grren over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the
party. Lady Bertram constantly declined it; hut
her placid manner of refusal made Mrs. Bush-
worth still think she wished to come, till Mrs.
Norris’s more numerous words and louder tone
convinced her of the truth.

‘ ‘ The fatigue would be too much for my sister,
a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs.
Bushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you
know. You must excuse my sister on this occa¬
sion, and accept of our two dear girls and myself
without her. Sotherton is the only place that
could give her a wish to go so far, but it cannot
be indeed. She will have a companion in Fanny
Price, you know, so it will all do very well ; and
as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for
himself, I will answer for his being most happy
to join the party. He can go on horseback,
you know.”

Mrs. Bushworth, being obliged to yield to Lady
Bertram’s staying at home, could only be sorry.
< ‘ The loss of her Ladyship’s company would be
a greaf drawback, and she should have been ex*

102

MANSFIELD PARK.

tremely happy to have seen the young lady too,
Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton
yet, and it was a pity she should not see the
place.”

“You are very kind, you are all kindness, my
dear madam,” cried Mrs. Norris; “but as to
Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of
seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before
her; and her going now is quite out of the ques¬
tion. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare
her. ”

“Oh, no, — I cannot do without Fanny.”

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the
conviction that everybody must be wanting to
see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the
imitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not
been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth
on her coming into the neighborhood, civilly
declined it on her own account, she was glad to
secure any pleasure for her sister; and Mary,
properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in.
accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rush-
worth came back from the Parsonage successful;
and Edmund made his appearance just in time
to Gear n what had been settled for Wednesday,
to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and

walk half-way down the park with the two other
ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found
Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to
whether Miss Crawford’s being of the party were
desirable or not, or whether her brother’s ba¬
rouche would not be full without her. The Miss

MANSFIELD PAEK.

103

Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that
the barouche would hold four perfectly well, in¬
dependent of the box, on which one might go
with him,

“ But why is it necessary,” said Edmund, “that
Crawford’s carriage, or his only, should be em¬
ployed? Why is no use to he made of my mother’s
chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first
mentioned the other day, understand why a visit
from the family were not to be made in the car¬
riage of the family.”

“What! ” cried Julia; “go boxed up three in
a postchaise in this weather, when we may have
seats in a barouche ! No, my dear Edmund, that
will not quite do.”

“Besides,” said Maria, “I know that Mr.
Crawford depends upon taking us. After what
passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.

“And, my dear Edmund,” added Mrs. Norris,
“taking out two carriages when one will do, would
he trouble for nothing; and between ourselves,
coachman is not very fond of the roads between
this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly
of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and
you know one should not like to have dear Sii
Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish
scratched off.”

“ That would not he a very handsome reason for
using Mr. Crawford’s,” said Maria; “hut the
truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and
does not know how to drive. I will answer for it
that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow
roads on Wednesday.”

104

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing
unpleasant,” said Edmund, “in going on the
barouche box.”

“Unpleasant!” cried Maria; “oh dear, I be¬
lieve it would be generally thought the favorite
seat. There can be no comparison as to one’s
view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford
will choose the barouche box herself.”

“There can be no objection then to Fanny’s
going with you; there can be no doubt of your
having room for her.”

“Fanny!” repeated Mrs. Norris; “my dear
Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us.
She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Busliworth
so. She is not expected.”

“You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,”
said he, addressing his mother, “for wishing
Fanny not to be of the party, hut as it relates to
yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do
without her, you would not wish to keep her at
home? ”

“To he sure not, but I cannot do without her.”

“ You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean
to do.”

sphere was a general cry out at this. “Yes,”
he continued, “ there is no necessity for my going,
and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great
c esire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it
very much. She has not often a gratification of
the kind,, and I am sure, ma’am, you would be
glad to give her the pleasure now?”

“Oh, yes, very glad, if your aunt sees no
objection.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

105

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objec¬
tion which could remain, — their having positively
assured Mrs. Bushworth that Fanny could not go,
and the very strange appearance there would con¬
sequently be in taking her, which seemed to her a
difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must
have the strangest appearance! It would be some¬
thing so very unceremonious, so bordering on dis¬
respect for Mrs. Bushworth, whose own manners
were such a pattern of good-breeding and atten¬
tion, that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs.
Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of
procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposi¬
tion to Edmund now arose more from partiality for
her own scheme, because it was her own, than from
anything else. She felt that she had arranged
everything extremely well, and that any alteration
must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore,
told her in reply, as he did when she would give
him the hearing, that she need not distress herself
on Mrs. Bushworth’ s account, because he had
taken the opportunity as he walked with her
through the hall of mentioning Miss Brice as
one who would probably be of the party, and had
directly received a very sufficient invitation for his
cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit
with a very good grace, and would only say, “ Very
well, very well, just as you choose, settle it your
own way, I am sure I do not care about it.”

“It seems very odd,” said Maria, “that you
should be staying at home instead of Fanny.”

“ I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to
you,” added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she

106

MANSFIELD PARK.

spoke, from a consciousness that she ought to oftei'
to stay at home herself.

“Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occa¬
sion requires,” was Edmund’s only reply; and the
subject dropped.

Fanny’s gratitude, when she heard the plan,
was in fact much greater than her pleasure. She
felt Edmund’s kindness with all, and more than
all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her
fond attachment, could he aware of; but that he
should forego any enjoyment on her account gave
her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sothei-
ton would be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families
produced another alteration in the plan, and one
that was admitted with general approbation. Mrs,
Grant offered herself as companion for the cuiy
to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant
was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram was
very well pleased to have it so, and the young
ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was
very thankful for an arrangement which restored
him to his share of the party; and Mrs. L orris
thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her
tongue’s end, and was on the point of proposing it,
when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast
the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his
sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was
nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight
and the others to take their places. The place of
all places, the envied seat, the post of honor, was
unappropriated. To whose, happy lot was it to

MANSFIELD PARK.

107

fall? While each of the Miss Bertrams was
meditating how best, and with most appearance of
obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was
settled by Mrs. Grant’s saying, as she stepped
from the carriage, “ As there are five of you, it
will be better that one should sit with Henry; and
as you were saying lately that you wished you
could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good op¬
portunity for you to take a lesson.”

Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former
was on the barouche box in a moment, the latter
took her seat within, in gloom and mortification;
and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of
the two remaining ladies, and the harking of pug
in his mistress’s arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and
Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive, was
soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy
in observing all that was new, and admiring all
that was pretty. She was not often invited to join
in the conversation of the others, nor did she desire
it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habit¬
ually her best companions; and in observing the
appearance of the country, the bearings of the
roads, the difference of soil, the state of the har¬
vest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she
found entertainment that could only have been
heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what
she felt. That was the only point of resemblance
between her and the lady who sat by her; in every¬
thing but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was
very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's deli¬
cacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw nature,

108

MANSFIELD PARK.

inanimate nature, with little observation; her at¬
tention was all for men and women, her talents for
the light and lively. In looking back after Ed¬
mund, however, when there was any stretch of road
behind them, or when he gained on them in as¬
cending a considerable hill, they were united, and
a “ There he is! ” broke at the same moment from
them both, more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very
little real comfort: her prospect always ended in
Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by side
full of conversation and merriment; and to see
only his expressive profile as he turned with a
smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of the other,
was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own
sense of propriety could but just smooth over.
When Julia looked back, it was with a counte¬
nance of delight ; and whenever she spoke to them,
it was in the highest spirits: “her view of the
country was charming, she wished they could all
see it,” etc., but her only offer of exchange was ad¬
dressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the sum¬
mit of a long hill, and was not more inviting than
this : ■' ‘ Here is" a fine burst of country. I wish
you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take
it, let me press you ever so much; ” and Miss
Crawford could hardly answer, before they were
moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sother-
ton associations, it was better for Miss Bertram,
who might be said to have two strings to her bow.
She had Rushworth-feelings and Crawford-feel-
ings, and in the vicinity of Sotherton the former

MANSFIELD PARK.

109

had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth’s conse¬
quence was hers. She could not tell Miss Craw¬
ford that “ those woods belonged to Sotherton, ”
she could not carelessly observe that “she believed
it was now all Mr. Rushworth’s property on eacf
side of the road,” without elation of heart; and i
was a pleasure to increase with their approach to
the capital freehold mansion, and ancient manorial
residence of the family, with all its rights of court-
leet and court-baron.

“ Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss
Crawford; our difficulties are over. The rest of
the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rush-
worth has made it since he succeeded to the es¬
tate. Here begins the village. Those cottages
are really a disgrace. The church spire is reck¬
oned remarkably handsome. I am glad the church
is not so close to the Great House as often happens
in old places. The annoyance of the bells must
be terrible. There is the parsonage, — a tidy-look¬
ing house, and I understand the clergyman and
his wife are very decent people. Those are alms¬
houses, built by some of the family. To the right
is the steward’s house; he is a very respectable
man. Now we are coming to the lodge gates; but
we have nearly a mile through the park still. It
is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some
fine timber, but the situation of the house is
dreadful. M^e go down hill to it for half a mile,
and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking
place if it had a better approach.”

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she
pretty well guessed Miss Bertram’s feelings, and

110

MANSFIELD PARK.

made it a point of honor to promote her enjoyment
to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and
volubility; and even Fanny had something to say
in admiration, and might be heard with com¬
placency. Her eye was eagerly taking in every¬
thing within her reach; and after being at some
pains to get a view of the house, and observing
that “it was a sort of building which she could
not look at but with respect,” she added, “Now,
where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I
perceive. The avenue, therefore, must he at the
back of it. Mr. Ruskwortli talked of the west
front.”

Yes, it is exactly behind the house ; begins at
a little distance, and ascends for half a mile to the
extremity of the grounds. You may see some¬
thing of it here, — something of the more distant
trees. It is oak entirely.”

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided in¬
formation of what she had known nothing about
when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion ; and
her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and
pride could furnish, when they drove up to the
spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.

X

CHAPTER IX.

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his
fair lady; and the whole party were welcomed by
him with due attention. In the drawing-room
they were met with equal cordiality by the
mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction
with each that she could wish. After the business
of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat,
and the doors were thrown open to admit them
through one or two intermediate rooms into the
appointed dining-parlor, where a collation was pre¬
pared with abundance and elegance. Much was
said, and much was ate; and all went well. The
particular object of the day was then considered.
How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner
would he choose, to take a survey of the grounds?
Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr.
Crawford suggested the greater desirableness of
some carriage which might convey more than two.
“To be depriving themselves of the advantage of
other eyes and other judgments might be an evil
even beyond the loss of present pleasure.”

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should
be taken also ; but this was scarcely received as an
amendment: the young ladies neither smiled nor
spoke. Her next proposition of showing the

112

MANSFIELD PARK.

house to such of them as had not been there be¬
fore was more acceptable ; for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were
glad to be doing something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under
Mrs. Bush worth’ s guidance were shown through
a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large and
amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back,
with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich damask,
marble, gilding and carving, each "handsome in its
way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some
few good; but the larger part were family portraits
no longer anything to anybody but Mrs. Bush-
worth, who had been at great pains to learn all
that the housekeeper could teach, and was now
almost equally well qualified to show the house.
On the present occasion she addressed herself
chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there
was no comparison in the willingness of their
attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen scores
of great houses, and cared for none of them, had
only the appearance of civilly listening, while
Fanny, to whom everything was almost as inter¬
esting as it was new, attended with unaffected
earnestness to all that Mrs. Bushworth could re¬
ate of the family in former times, its rise and
grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted
to connect anything with history already known
or warm her imagination with scenes of the past. ’
he situation of the house excluded the possi-
bility of much prospect from any of the rooms;
and while Fanny and some of the others were
attending Mrs. Bushworth, Henry Crawford was

MANSFIELD FARK.

113

looking grave and shaking his head at the windows.
Every room on the west front .ooked across a
lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately
beyond tall iron palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could he
supposed to he of any other use than to contribute
to the window tax, and find employment for house¬
maids, “Now,” said Mrs. Bushworth, “we are
coming to the chapel, which probably we ought to
enter from above, and look down upon; but as we
are quite among friends, I will take you in this
way, if you will excuse me.”

They entered. Fanny’s imagination had pre¬
pared her for something grander than a mere
spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose
of devotion, — with nothing more striking or more
solemn than the profusion of mahogany, and the
crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge
of the family gallery above. “ I am disappointed,
said she, in a low voice to Edmund. “This is
not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful
here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here
are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, no banners.
No banners, cousin, to be ‘blown by the night
wind of heaven.’ No signs that a ‘Scottish

monarch sleeps below.’ ”

“You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has
been built, and for how confined a purpose, com¬
pared with the old chapels of castles and monas¬
teries. It was only for the private use of the
family. They have been buried, I suppose, in
the parish church. There you must look for the
banners and the achievements.”

VOL. i. — 8

114

MANSFIELD PARK.

“It was foolish of me not to think of all that,
but I am disappointed.”

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This
chapel was fitted up as you see it in James the
Second’s time. Before that period, as I under¬
stand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is
some reason to think that the linings and cushions
of the pulpit and family seat were only purple
cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a hand¬
some chapel, and was formerly in constant use both
morning and evening. Prayers were always read
in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory
of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off.”

“Every generation has its improvements,” said
Miss Crawford, with a smile to Edmund.

Mrs. Rush worth was gone to repeat her lesson
to Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Eanny, and Miss
Crawford remained in a cluster together.

“ It is a pity, ” cried Fanny, “that the custom
should have been discontinued. It was a valuable
part of former times. There is something in a
chapel and chaplain so much in character with
a great house, with one’s ideas of what such a
household should be ! A whole family assembling
regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

“Very fine, indeed!” said Miss Crawford,
laughing. “It must do the heads of the family a
great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids
and footmen to leave business and pleasure and
say their prayers here twice a day, while they are
inventing excuses themselves for staying away.”

“That is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family as¬
sembling,” said Edmund. “If the master and

MANSFIELD PARK.

115

mistress do not attend themselves, there must be
more harm than good in the custom.”

“ At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their
own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes
to go their own way, — to choose their own time
and manner of devotion. The obligation of attend¬
ance, the formality, the restraint, the length of
time, — altogether it is a formidable thing, and
what nobody likes; and if the good people who
used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have
foreseen that the time would ever come when men
and women might lie another ten minutes in bed,
when they woke with a headache, without danger
of reprobation because chapel was missed, they
would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot
you imagine with what unwilling feelings the
former belles of the house of Bushworth did many
a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs.
Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets, — starched up into
seeming piety, but with heads full of something
very different, — especially if the poor chaplain
were not worth looking at, — and in those days I
fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they
are now.”

Eor a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny
colored and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry
for speech; and he needed a little recollection
before he could say, “Your lively mind can hardly
be serious even on serious subjects. You have
given us an amusing sketch, and human nature
cannot say it was not so. We must all feel at
times the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we
could wish ; but if you are supposing it a frequent

116

MANSFIELD PARK.

thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a
habit from neglect, what could be expected from
the private devotions of such persons? Do you
think the minds which are suffered, which are
indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be
more collected in a closet? ”

“Yes, very likely. They would have two
chances at least in their favor. There would he
less to distract the attention from without, and it
would not be tried so long.”

“The mind which does not straggle against it¬
self under one circumstance woxrld find objects to
distract it in the other, I believe; and the in¬
fluence of the place and of example may often
rouse better feelings than are begun with. The
greater length of the service, however, I admit to
be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind.
One wishes it were not so; hut I have not yet
left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel
prayers are.”

While this was passing, the rest of the party
being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr.
Crawford’s attention to her sister saying, “Do
look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side
by skje, exactly as if the ceremony were going to
be performed. Have not they completely the air
of it?”

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and step¬
ping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she
only could hear, “I do not like to see Miss Ber¬
tram so near the altar.”

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or
two; but recovering herself in a moment, affected

MANSFIELD PARK.

117

to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much
louder, if he would give her away.

“ I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,”
was his reply, with a look of meaning.

Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on
the joke.

“Upon my word, it is really a pity that it
should not take place directly, if we had but a
proper license; for here we are all together, and
nothing in the world could be more snug and
pleasant.” And she talked and laughed about it
with so little caution as to catch the comprehen¬
sion of Mr. Eushworth and his mother, and expose
her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover,
while Mrs. Eushworth spoke with proper smiles
and dignity of its being a most happy event to
her whenever it took place.

“ If Edmund were but in orders! ” cried Julia,
and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford
and Fanny. “My dear Edmund, if you were but in
orders now, you might perform the ceremony
directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained!
Mr. Eushworth and Maria are quite ready.”

Miss Crawford’s countenance, as Julia spoke,
might have amused a disinterested observer. She
looked almost aghast under the new idea she was
receiving. Fanny pitied her.

“ How distressed she will he at what she said
just now! ” passed across her mind.

“Ordained!” said Miss Crawford: “what, are

you to he a clergyman? ”

“ Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father’s
return, — probably at Christmas.’

118

MANSFIELD PAKK.

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits and recover¬
ing her complexion, replied only, “ If I had known
this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with
more respect,” and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the
silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few
interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Ber¬
tram, displeased with her sister, led the way; and
all seemed to feel that they had been there long
enough.

The lower part of the house had been now en¬
tirely shown; and Mrs. Bushworth, never weary
in the cause, would have proceeded towards the
principal staircase, and taken them through all
the rooms above, if her son had not interposed
with a doubt of there being time enough. “For
if, said he, with the sort of self-evident proposi¬
tion which many a clearer head does not always
avoid, “we are too long going over the house, we
shall not have time for what is to be done out of
doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at
five.”

Mrs. Bushworth submitted; and the question
for surveying the grounds, with the who and the
how, \ was likely to be more fully agitated, and
Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what
junction of carriages and horses most could be
done, when the young people, meeting with an
outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps
which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all
the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse
one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

“Suppose we turn down here for the present,”

MANSFIELD PARK.

119

said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and
following them. “Here are the greatest number
of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.”

“Query,” said Mr. Crawford, looking round
him, “whether we may not find something to
employ us here, before we go farther? I see
walls of great’ promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we
summon a council on this lawn?”

“James,” said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, “I
believe the wilderness will he new to all the party.
The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness
yet.”

No objection was made, hut for some time there
seemed no inclination to move in any plan or to
any distance. All were attracted at first by the
plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about
in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the
first to move forward, to examine the capabilities
of that end of the house. The lawn, hounded on
each side by a high wall, contained beyond the
first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the
bowling-green a long terrace walk, hacked by
iron palisades, and commanding a view over them
into the tops of the trees of the wilderness imme¬
diately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault¬
finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by
Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when
after a little time the others began to form into
parties, these three were found in busy consulta¬
tion on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford,
and Fannv, who seemed as naturally to unite, and
who, after a short participation of their regrets
and difficulties, left them and walked on. The

120

MANSFIELD PARK.

remaining tliree — Airs. Hushworth, Mirs. Horns,
and Julia — were still far behind; for Julia, whose
happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to
keep by the side of Mrs. Hush worth, and restrain
her impatient feet to that lady’s slow pace, while
her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper,
who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lin¬
gering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia,
the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied
with their lot, was now in a state of complete
penance, and as different from the Julia of the
barouche box as could well be imagined. The
politeness which she had been brought up to prac¬
tise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape ;
while the want of that higher species of self-
command, that just consideration of others, that
knowledge of her own heart, that principle of
right which had not formed any essential part of
her education, made her miserable under it.

“This is insufferably hot,” said Miss Crawford
when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and
were drawing a second time to the door in the mid¬
dle which opened to the wilderness. “Shall any
of us object to being comfortable? Here is a nice
liktle wood, if one can hut get into it. What hap¬
piness if the door should not he locked ! — hut of
course it is ; for in these great places the gardeners
are the only people who can go where they like.”

The door, however, proved not to he locked, and
they were all agreed in turning joyfully through
it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day be¬
hind. A considerable flight of steps landed them
in the wilderness, which was a planted wood of

MANSFIELD PARK.

121

about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and
laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out
with too much regularity, was darkness and shade,
and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-
green and the terrace. They all felt the refresh¬
ment of it, and for some time could only walk and
admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss
Crawford began with, “ So you are to be a clergy¬
man, Mr. Bertram. This is rather a surprise to
me.”

“ Why should it surprise you? You must sup¬
pose me designed for some profession, and might
perceive that I am neither a lawyer nor a soldier
nor a sailor.”

“Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred
to me. And you know there is generally an uncle
or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second
son.”

“ A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund,
“but not quite universal. I am one of the excep¬
tions, and being one, must do something for
myself. ’ ’

“But why are you to be a clergyman? I
thought that was always the lot of the youngest,
where there were many to choose before him.”

“Do you think the church itself never chosen,
then? ”

“ ‘Never’ is a blackword. But yes, in the ‘never’
of conversation which means ‘ not very often, ’ I do
think it. For what is to be done in the church?
Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either
of the other lines distinction may be gained, but
not in the church. A clergyman is nothing.”

122

MANSFIELD PAEK.

“The ‘ nothing ’ of conversation has its grada¬
tions, I hope, as well as the ‘ never.’ A clergyman
cannot be high in state or fashion. He must not
head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot
call that situation nothing, which has the charge
of all that is of the first importance to mankind,
individually or collectively considered, temporally
and eternally, — which has the guardianship of
religion and morals, and consequently of the man¬
ners which result from their influence. Ho one
here can call the office nothing. If the man who
holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by
foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of
his place to appear what he ought not to appear.”

“ You assign greater cbnsequence to the clergy¬
man than one has been used to hear given, or than
I can quite comprehend. One does not see much
of this influence and importance in society, and
how can it be acquired where they are so seldom
seen themselves? How can two sermons a week,
even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the
preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair’s to his
own, do all that you speak of, - — govern the conduct
and fashion the manners of a large congregation
iW the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a
clergyman out of his pulpit.”

“'You are speaking of London, I am speaking
of the nation at large.”

“The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair
sample of the rest.”

“.Hot, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue
to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look
in great cities for our best morality. It is not

MANSFIELD PARK.

123

there that respectable people of any denomination
can do most good; and it certainly is not there
that the influence of the clergy can be most felt.
A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is
not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman
will be useful in his parish and his neighborhood,
where the parish and neighborhood are of a size
capable of knowing his private character, and ob¬
serving his general conduct, which in London can
rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in
the crowds of their parishioners. They are known
to the largest part only as preachers. And with
regard to their influencing public manners, Miss
Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose
I mean to call them the arbiters of good breeding,
the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the
masters of the ceremonies of life. The manners
I speak of might rather be called conduct, perhaps,
the result of good principles; the effect, in short,
of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach
and recommend; and it will, I believe, be every¬
where found that as the clergy are, or are not
what they ought to be, so are the rest of the
nation.”

.<•' Certainly,” said Fanny, with gentle earnest¬
ness.

“ There,” cried Miss Crawford, “ you have
quite convinced Miss Price already.”

“ I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.”

“I do not think you ever will,” said she, with
an arch smile; “ 1 am just as much surprised now
as I was at first that you should intend to take
orders. You really are fit for something better

124

MANSFIELD PARK.

Come, do change your mind. It is not too late.
Go into the law.”

“ Go into the law! with as much ease as I was
told to go into this wilderness.”

“Now you are going to say something about
law being the worse wilderness of the two, hut I
forestall you; remember I have forestalled you.”

“ You need not hurry when the object is only to
prevent my saying a bon mot, for there is not the
least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-
fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the
borders of a repartee for half an hour together
without striking it out.”

A general silence succeeded. Each was thought¬
ful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,
“ I wonder that I should be tired with only walk¬
ing in this sweet wood; but the next time we come
to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should
be glad to sit down for a little while.”

“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately
drawing her arm within his, “how thoughtless I
have been! I hope you are not very tired. Per¬
haps,” turning to Miss Crawford, “my other
companion may do me the honor of taking an
\ arm.”

“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She
took it, however, as she spoke; and. the gratifica¬
tion of having her do so, of feeling such a connec¬
tion for the first time, made him a little forgetful
of Fanny. “You scarcely touch me,” said he.
“You do not make me of any use. What a differ¬
ence in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of
a man ! At Oxford I have been a good deal used

MANSFIELD PARK.

125

to have a man lean on me for tlie length of a street,
and you are only a fly in the comparison. ”

‘ ‘ I am really not tired, which I almost wonder
at; for we must have walked at least a mile in
this wood. Do not you think we have? ”

“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for
he was not yet so much in love as to measure dis¬
tance or reckon time with feminine lawlessness.

“Oh, you do not consider how much we have
wound about. We have taken such a very ser¬
pentine course; and the wood itself must be half a
mile long in a straight line, for we have never
seen the end of it yet, since we left the first great
path.”

“But if you remember, before we left that first
great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We
looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by
iron gates; and it could not have been more than a
furlong in length.”

“Oh, I know nothing of your furlongs, but I
am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have
been winding in and out ever since Ave came into
it; and therefore when I say that we have walked
a mile in it, I must speak within compass.”

“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour
here,” said Edmund, taking out his watch. “ Do
you think we are walking four miles an hour ?

“Oh, do not attack me with your watch. A
watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot he
dictated to by a watch.”

A feAV steps farther brought them out at the
bottom of the very walk they had been talking of;
and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and

126

MANSFIELD FA1IK.

looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfort¬
able-sized bench, on which they all sat down.

' “ I am afraid 3rou are very tired, Fanny,” said
Edmund, observing her; “why would not you
speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s amuse¬
ment for you, if you are to be knocked up. Every
sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Craw¬
ford, except riding.”

“How abominable in you, then, to let me en¬
gross her horse as I did all last week! I am
ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never
happen again.”

“Your attentiveness and consideration make
me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny’s
interest seems in safer hands with you than
with me.”

“ That she should he tired now, however, gives
me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course
of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have been
doing this morning, — seeing a great house, daw¬
dling from one room to another, straining one’s
eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one does
not understand, admiring what one does not care
for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest
\ore in the world; and Miss Price has found it
so, though she did not know it.”

“I shall soon be rested,” said Fanny; “ to sit
m the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure
is the most perfect refreshment.”

After sitting a little while, Miss Crawford was
up . again, “I must move,” said she; “resting
rahgues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I
am weary. I must go and look through that iron

She watched them until they had turned the corner

Mansfield Park, I., 127

MANSFIELD PARK. 127

gate at tlie same view, without being able to see it
so well.”

Edmund left the seat likewise, “blow, Miss
Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will
convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile
long, or half half a mile.”

“It is an immense distance,” said she; “I see
that with a glance.”

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She
would not calculate, she would not compare. She
would only smile and assert. The greatest degree
of rational consistency could not have been more
engaging, and they talked with mutual satisfac¬
tion. At last it was agreed that they should en¬
deavor to determine the dimensions of the wood by
walking a little more about it. They would go to
one end of it, in the line they were then in (for
there was a straight green walk along the bottom
by the side of the ha-ha), and perhaps turn a little
way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to
assist them, and he hack in a few minutes. Fanny
said she was rested, and would have moved too;
hut this was not suffered. Edmund urged her re¬
maining where she was with an earnestness which
she could not resist, and she was left on the bench
to think with pleasure of her cousin’s care, hut
with great regret that she was not stronger. She
watched them till they had turned the corner, and
listened till all sound of them had ceased.

CHAPTER X.

A quarter of an liour, twenty minutes, passed
away; and Eanny was still thinking of Edmund,
Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption
from any one. She began to be surprised at being
left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire
of hearing their steps and their voices again. She
listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices
and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied
herself that it was not those she wanted, when
Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford
issued from the same path which she had trod
herself, and were before her.

“Miss Price all alone! ” and “My dear Eanny,
how comes this? ” were the first salutations. She
told her story. “Poor, dear Fanny,” cried her
cousin, “how ill you have been used by them!
You had better have stayed with us.”

\Then seating herself with a gentleman on each
side, she resumed the conversation which had en¬
gaged them before, and discussed the possibility of
improvements with much animation. Nothing
was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of
ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, what¬
ever he proposed was immediately approved, first
by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose prin¬
cipal business seemed to he to hear the others, and

MANSFIELD PARK.

129

who scarcely risked an original thought of his own
beyond a wish that they had seen his friend
Smith’s place.

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Ber¬
tram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of
passing through it into the park, that their views
and their plans might be more comprehensive. It
was the very thing of all others to be wished, it
was the best, it was the only way of proceeding
with any advantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion;
and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off,
which would give them exactly the requisite com¬
mand of the house. Go therefore they must to
that knoll and through that gate; but the gate was
locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought
the key; he had been very near thinking whether
he should not bring the key; he was determined
he would never come without the key again; but
still this did not remove the present evil. They
could not get through; and as Miss Bertram’s in¬
clination for so doing did by no means lessen,
it ended in Mr. Rushworth ’s declaring outright
that he would go and fetch the key. He set off
accordingly.

“It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do
now, as we are so far from the house already,”
said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.

“Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But
now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether
worse than you expected? ”

“No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better,
grander, more complete in its style, though that
style may not be the best. And to tell you the
VOL. i. — 9

130

MANSFIELD PARK

truth,” speaking rather lower, “I do not think
that I shall ever see Sotherton again with so much
pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly
improve it to me.”

After a moment’s embarrassment the lady re¬
plied: “You are too much a man of the world not
to see with the eyes of the world. If other people
think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that
you will.”

“ I am afraid I am not quite so much the man
of the world as might be good for me in some
points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent,
nor my memory of the past under such easy domin¬
ion as one finds to be the case with men of the
world.”

This was followed by a short silence. Miss Ber¬
tram began again. “You seemed to enjoy your
drive here very much this morning. I was glad
to see you so well entertained. You and Julia
were laughing the whole way.”

“Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I
have not the least recollection at what. Oh, I be¬
lieve I was relating to her some ridiculous stories
of an old Irish groom of my uncle’s. Your sister
loves to laugh.”

“You think her more light-hearted than I am.”

“More easily amused,” he replied; “conse¬
quently, you know,” smiling, “better company.
I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish
anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.”

“ Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia,
but I have more to think of now.”

“ You have undoubtedly, — and there are situa-

MANSFIELD PARK.

131

tions in which very high spirits would denote in¬
sensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair
to justify want of spirits. You have a very
smiling scene before you.”

“Do you mean literally or figuratively? Liter¬
ally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines,
and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily
that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of re¬
straint and hardship. I cannot get out, as the
starling said.” As she spoke, and it was with ex¬
pression, she walked to the gate ; he followed her.
“Mr. Rush worth is so long fetching this key! ”

‘ ‘ And for the world you would not get out with¬
out the key and without Mr. Rushworth’s authority
and protection, or I think you might with little
difficulty --'pass round the edge of the gate, here,
with my assistance; I think it might be done, if
you really wished to be more at large, and could
allow yourself to think it not prohibited.”

“Prohibited! Nonsense! I certainly can get out
that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here
in a moment, you know, — we shall not be out of
sight.”

“ Or if we are, Miss Price will he so good as to
tell him that he will find us near that knoll, the
grove of oak on the knoll.”

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not
help making an effort to prevent it. “ You will
hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried, “you
will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes, —
you will tear your gown, you will be in danger
of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not
go.”

132

MANSFIELD PARK.

Her cousin was safe on the other side while
these words were spoken; and smiling with all the
good-humor of success, she said, “ Thank you, my
dear Fanny; but I and my gown are aliye and well,
and so good-by.”

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with
no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry
for almost all that she had seen and heard, as¬
tonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr.
Crawford. By taking a circuitous and, as it ap¬
peared to her, very unreasonable direction to the
knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for
some minutes longer she remained without sight
or sound of any companion. She seemed to have
the little wood all to herself. She could almost
have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had
left it, but that it wa« impossible for Edmund to
forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable mus-
ings by sudden footsteps; somebody was coming
at a quick pace down the principal walk. She
expected Mr. Rushworth; but it was Julia, who,
hot and out of breath and with a look of disap¬
pointment, cried out on seeing her: ^Ffeyday!
where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr.
Crawford were with you.”

Fanny explained.

A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot
see them anywhere,” looking eagerly into the
park. “ But they cannot be very far off, and I
think I am equal to as much as Maria, even
without help.”

“But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here

MANSFIELD PARK.

133

in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr.
Rush worth. ”

“Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the
family for one morning. Why, child, I have
hut this moment escaped from his horrible mother.
Such a penance as I have been enduring, while
you were sitting here so composed and so happy!
It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had
been in my place; but you always contrive to
keep out of these scrapes.”

This was a most unjust reflection; hut Fanny
could allow for it, and let it pass: Julia was
vexed, and her temper was hasty; hut she felt
that it would not last, and therefore, taking no
notice, only asked her if she had not seen Mr.
Rushworth.

“Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting
away as if upon life and death, and could hut
just spare time to tell us his errand, and where
you all were.”

“It is a pity that he should have so much
trouble for nothing.”

“That is Miss Maria’s concern. I am not
obliged to punish myself for her sins. The mother
I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt
was dancing about with the housekeeper; hut the
son I can get away from.”

And she immediately scrambled across the fence,
and walked away, not attending to Fanny’s last
question of whether she had seen anything of
Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread
in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. Rushworth
prevented her thinking so much of their contin-

134

MANSFIELD PARK.

ued absence, however, as she might have done.
She felt that he had been very ill used, and was
quite unhappy in having to communicate what
had passed. He joined her within five minutes
after Julia’s exit; and though she made the best
of the story, he was evidently mortified and dis¬
pleased in no common degree. At first he scarcely
said anything; his looks only expressed his ex¬
treme surprise and vexation, and he vralked to
the gate and stood there, without seeming to
know what to do.

“They desired me to stay, — my cousin Maria
charged me to say that you would find them at
that knoll, or thereabouts.”

“I do not believe I shall go any farther,”
said he, sullenly; “ I see nothing of them. By the
time I get to the knoll, they may be gone some¬
where else. I have had walking enough.”

And he sat down with a most gloomy counte¬
nance by Fanny.

“I am very sorry,” said she; “it is very un¬
lucky.” And she longed to be able to say some¬
thing more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, “I think they
m^ght as well have stayed for me,” said he.

“Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.”

“I should not have had to follow her if she
had stayed.”

Ihis could not be denied, and Fanny was si¬
lenced. After another pause he went on : “Pray,
Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of
this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my
part I can see nothing in him.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

135

“I do not think him at all handsome.”

“ Handsome! Nobody can call such an under¬
sized man handsome. He is not five foot nine.
I should not wonder if he was not more than five
foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow.
In my opinion, these Crawfords are no addition
at all. We did very well without them.”

A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did
not know how to contradict him.

“If I had made any difficulty about fetching
the key, there might have been some excuse ; but I
went the very moment she said she wanted it.”

“Nothing could be more obliging than your
manner, I am sure, and I dare say you walked as
fast as you could; but still it is some distance,
you know, from this spot to the house, quite into
the house; and when people are waiting they are
bad judges of time, and every half-minute seems
like five.”

He got up and walked to the gate again, and
“ wished he had had the key about him at the
time.” Fanny thought she discerned in his
standing there an indication of relenting, which
encouraged her to another attempt, and she said
therefore: “ It is a pity you should not join them.
They expected to have a better view of the house
from that part of the park, and will he thinking
how it may he improved; and nothing of that sort,
you know, can be settled without you.

She found herself more successful in sending
away than in retaining a companion. Mr. Kush-
worth was worked on. “Well,” said he, “if
you really think I had better go; it would be

136

MANSFIELD FARK.

foolish to bring the key for nothing.” And let'
ting himself out, he walked off without further
ceremony.

Fanny’s thoughts were now all engrossed by the
two who had left her so long ago; and getting
quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of
them. She followed their steps along the bottom
walk, and had just turned up into another, when
the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once
more caught her ear; the sound approached, and
a few more windings brought them before her.
They were just returned into the wilderness from
the park, to which a side gate, not fastened, had
tempted them very soon after their leaving her,
and they had been across a portion of the park into
the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the
whole morning to reach at last, and had been
sitting down under one of the trees. This was
their history. It was evident that they had been
spending their time pleasantly, and were not
aware of the length of their absence. Fanny’s
best consolation was in being assured that Edmund
had wished for her very much, and that he should
certainly have come back for her, had she not been
tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to
do away the pain of having been left a whole hour,
v hen he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to
banish the sort of curiosity she felt, to know what
they had been conversing about all that time; and
the result of the whole was to her disappointment
and depression, as they prepared, by general agree¬
ment, to return to the house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the ter-

MANSFIELD PARK.

137

race, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented
themselves at the top, just ready for the wilder¬
ness, at the end of an hour and a half from their
leaving the house. Mrs. Norris had been too well
employed to move faster. Whatever cross acci¬
dents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of
her nieces, she had found a morning of complete
enjoyment, — for the housekeeper, after a great
many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had
taken her to the dairy, told her all about their
cows, and given her the receipt for a famous cream
cheese ; and since Julia’s leaving them, they had
been met by the gardener, with whom she had
made a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had
set him right as to his grandson’s illness, con¬
vinced Jum it was an ague, and promised him a
charm for it; and he, in return, had showed her
all his choicest nursery of plants, and actually
presented her with a very curious specimen of
heath.

On this rencontre they all returned to the house
together, there to lounge away the time as they
could with sofas and chit-chat and Quarterly
Reviews, till the return of the others, and the
arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss
Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and
their ramble did not appear to have been more
than partially agreeable, or at all productive of
anything useful with regard to the object of the
day. By their own accounts they had been all
walking after each other, and the junction which
had taken place at last seemed, to Fanny’s obser¬
vation, to have been as much too late for re-

138

MANSFIELD PARK.

establishing harmony as it confessedly had been
for determining on any alteration. She felt, as
she looked at Julia and Mr. Kush worth, that hers
was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them;
there was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Craw¬
ford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and
she thought that he was taking particular pains,
during dinner, to do away any little resentment of
the other two, and restore general good-humor.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a
ten miles’ drive home allowed no waste of hours;
and from the time of their sitting down to table,
it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the
carriage came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having
fidgeted about and obtained a few pheasants’ eggs
and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and
made abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Kush-
wortli, was ready to lead the way. At the same
moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said,

‘ ‘ I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless
she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a
seat.” The request had not been foreseen, but
was very graciously received; and Julia’s day was
likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss
Bertram had made up her mind to something
different, and was a little disappointed; but her
conviction of being really the one preferred com¬
forted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.
Rushworth’s parting attentions as she ought. He
was certainly better pleased to hand her into the
barouche than to assist her in ascending the box,
— and his complacency seemed confirmed by the
arrangement.

MANSFIELD PARK.

139

“Well, Fanny, this lias been a fine day for you,
upon my word! ” said Mrs. Norris, as they drove
through the park. “Nothing hut pleasure from
beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be
very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and me
for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day’s
amusement you have had! ”

Maria was just discontented enough to say
directly, “I think you have done pretty well your¬
self, ma’am. Your lap seems full of good things,
and here is a basket of something between us,
which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully.”

“ My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath,
which that nice old gardener would make me take ;
but if it is in your way, I will have it in my lap
directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that
parcel for me, — take great care of it, — do not let
it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like the excellent
one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that
good old Mrs. Whitaker but my taking one of the
cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till the
tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was
just the sort that my sister would be delighted
with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She
was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine
was allowed at the second table, and she has turned
away two housemaids for wearing white gowns.
Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can man¬
age the other parcel and the basket very well.”

“What else have you been sponging?” said
Maria, half pleased that Sotherton should be so
complimented.

“Sponging, my dear! It is nothing but four

140

MANSFIELD PARK.

of those beautiful pheasants’ eggs, which Mrs.
Whitaker would quite force upon me; she would
not take a denial. She said it must he such an
amusement to me, as she understood I lived quite
alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort;
and so, to he sure, it will. I shall get the dairy¬
maid to set them under the first spare hen, and if
they come to good I can have them moved to my
own house and borrow a coop; and it will he a
great delight to me in my lonely hours to attend
to them. And if I have good luck, your mother
shall have some.”

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and
the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of nature
could make it; but when Mrs. ISTorris ceased
speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those
within. Their spirits were in general exhausted;
and to determine whether the day had afforded
most pleasure or pain, might occupy the medita¬
tions of almost all.

CHAPTER XI.

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections,
afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable
feelings than were derived from the letters from
Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield.
It was much pleasanter to think of Henry Craw¬
ford than of their father; and to think of their
father in England again within a certain period,
which these letters obliged them to do, was a
most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his
return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much de¬
cision as experience and anxiety could authorize.
His business was so nearly concluded as to justify
him in proposing to take his passage in the Sep¬
tember packet, and he consequently looked for¬
ward with the hope of being with his beloved
family again early in November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to
her the father brought a husband, and the return
of the friend most solicitous for her happiness
would unite her to the lover, on whom she had
chosen that happiness should depend. It was a
gloomy prospect, and all that she could do was to
throw a mist over it, and hope, when the mist
cleared away, she should see something else. It
would hardly be early in November; there were

142

MANSFIELD PARK.

generally delays, a bad passage or something, — -
that favoring something which everybody who shuts
their eyes while they look, or their understandings
while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would
probably be the middle of November at least; the
middle of November was three months off. Three
months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might
happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified
by a suspicion of half that his daughters felt on
the subject of his return, and would hardly have
found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it
excited in the breast of another young lady. Miss
Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend
the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good
news; and though seeming to have no concern in
the affair beyond politeness, and to have vented all
her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it
with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs.
Norris gave the particulars of the letters, and
the subject was dropped; but after tea, as Miss
Crawford was standing at an open window with
Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight
scene,- while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth,
arffi Henry Crawford were all busy with candles
at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turn¬
ing round towards the group, and saying, “How
happy Mr. Rushworth looks ! He is thinking of
November.”

Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too,
but had nothing to say. “Your father’s return
will be a very interesting event.”

“It will, indeed, after such an absence, —-an

MANSFIELD PARK.

143

absence not only long, but including so many
dangers.”

“It will be the forerunner also of other interest¬
ing events, — your sister’s marriage, and your
taking orders.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be affronted,” said she, laughing; “but
it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen
heroes, who, after performing great exploits in a
foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their
safe return.”

“There is no sacrifice in the case,” replied
Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing at
the pianoforte again; “it is entirely her own
doing.”

“ Oh, yes, I know it is. I was merely joking.
She has done no more than what every young
woman would do; and I have no doubt of her be¬
ing extremely happy. My other sacrifice of course
you do not understand.”

“My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as
voluntary as Maria’s marrying.”

“It is fortunate that your inclination and your
father’s convenience should accord so well. There
is a very good living kept for you, I understand,
hei’eabouts.”

“Which you suppose has biassed me.”

“ But that I am sure it has not,” cried Fanny.

“Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it
is more than I would affiimi myself. On the con¬
trary, the knowing that there was such a provision
for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it
wrong that it should. There was no natural die*

144

MANSFIELD PARK.

inclination to be overcome, and I see no reason
why a man should make a worse clergyman for
knowing that he will have a competence early in
life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not
have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and
I am sure my father was too conscientious to have
allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biassed,
but I think it was blamelessly.”

(<It is the same sort of thing,” said Fanny,
after a short pause, “as for the son of an admiral
to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be
in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in
that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the
line where their friends can serve them best, or
suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they
appear.”

“No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good.
The profession, either navy or army, is its own

justification. It has everything in its favor, _

heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sail¬
ors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can
wonder that men are soldiers and sailors.”

“But the motives of a man who takes orders
with the certainty of preferment may be fairly sus¬
pected, you think? ” said Edmund. “ To be jus¬
tified in your eyes, he must do it in the most
complete uncertainty of any provision.”

“What! take orders without a living! No-
that is madness indeed, absolute madness.”

“ Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled
if a man is neither to take orders with a living
nor without? No, for you certainly would not
know what to say. But I must beg ‘some advan-

MANSFIELD PARK.

145

tage to the clergyman from your own argument.
As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which
you rank highly as temptation and reward to the
soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession, as
heroism and noise and fashion are all against him,
he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.”

“ Oh, no doubt he is very sincere in preferring
an income ready made, to the trouble of working
for one; and has the best intentions of doing noth¬
ing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and
grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed,
indolence and love of ease, — a want of all laudable
ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclina¬
tion to take the trouble of being agreeable — which
make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing
to do but to be slovenly and selfish, — read the
newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with
his wife. His curate does all the work, and the
business of his own life is to dine.

“ There are such clergymen, no doubt; hut I
think they are not so common as to justify Miss
Crawford in esteeming it their general character.
I suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say)
commonplace censure you are not judging from
yourself, hut from prejudiced persons, whose opin¬
ions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is
impossible that your own observation can have
given you much knowledge of the clergy. You
can have been personally acquainted with very few
of a set of men you condemn so conclusively. You
are speaking what you have been told at youi
uncle’s table.”

VCTL. J. -*'10

146

MANSFIELD PARK.

“I speak what appears to me the general opin¬
ion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually
correct. Though I have not seen much of the
domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too
many to leave any deficiency of information.”

“Where any one body of educated men, of
whatever denomination, are condemned indiscrimi¬
nately, there must be a deficiency of information,
or,” smiling, “ of something else. Your uncle and
his brother admirals, perhaps, knew little of clergy¬
men beyond the chaplains, whom, good or bad,
they were always wishing away.”

“Poor William! He has met with great kind¬
ness from the chaplain of the Antwerp,” was a
tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much to the
purpose of her own feelings, if not of the
conversation.

“ I have been so little addicted to take my
opinions from my uncle,” said Miss Crawford,
“that I can hardly suppose; and since you push
me so hard, I must observe that I am not en¬
tirely without the means of seeing what clergy¬
men are, being at this present time the guest of my
own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant
is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is
really a gentleman, and I dare say a good scholar
and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and
is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent,
selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate con¬
sulted in everything, who will not stir a finger
for the convenience of any one, and who, more¬
over, if the cook makes a blunder is out of humor
with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry

MANSFIELD PARK.

147

and I were partly driven out this very evening ny
a disappointment about a green goose, which he
could not get the better of. My poor sister was
forced to stay and hear it.”

“ I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon
my word. It is a great defect of temper, made
worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
and to see your sister suffering from it must be
exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours.
Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt
to defend Dr. Grant.”

“No,” replied Fanny, “ but we need not give
up his profession for all that; because, whatever
profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have
taken a — not a good temper into it ; and as he
must either in the navy or army have had a great
many more people under his command than he
has now, I think more would have been made un¬
happy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a
clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that
whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr.
Grant, would have been in a greater danger of
becoming worse in a more active and worldly pro¬
fession, where he would have had less time and
obligation, — where he might have escaped that
knowledge of himself, the frequency, at least, of that
knowledge which it is impossible he should escape
as he is now. A man, a sensible man like Di.
Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching otheis
their duty every week, cannot go to church twice
every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons
in so good a manner as he does, without being the
better for it himself..' It must make him think/

148

MANSFIELD PARK.

and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavors to
restrain himself than he would if he had been
anything but a clergyman.”

“We cannot prove the contrary, to be sure, —
but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to
be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends
upon his own sermons; for though he may preach
himself into a good humor every Sunday, it will
be bad enough to have him quarrelling about
green geese from Monday morning till Saturday
night.”

“I think the man who could often quarrel with
Fanny,” said Edmund, affectionately, “must be
beyond the reach of any sermons.”

Fanny turned farther into the window; and
Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant
manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used
to deserve praise than to hear it; ” when being
earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in
a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving
Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admira¬
tion of all her many virtues, from her obliging
manners down to her light and graceful tread. &

“There goes good humor, I am sure,” said he
x presently; “there goes a temper which would
never give pain! How well she walks; and how
readily she falls in with the inclination of others,
joining them the moment she is asked! What a
pity,” he added, after an instant's reflection, “that
-he should have been in such hands! ”

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of
seeing linn continue at the window with her in
spite oi the expected glee; and of having his eyes

MANSFIELD PARK.

149

soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without,
where all that was solemn and soothing and
lovely appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded
night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the
woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. “Here’s
harmony!” said she; “here’s repose! Here’s
what may leave all painting and all music behind,
and what poetry only can attempt to describe!
Here ’s what may tranquillize every care, and lift
the heart to rapture! When I look out on such-
a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither
wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there
certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of
nature were more attended to, and people were
carried more out of themselves by contemplating
such a scene.”

“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It
is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied
who have not been taught to feel in some degree
as you do, — who have not at least been given a
taste for nature in early life. They lose a great
deal.”

“You taught me to think and feel on the sub¬
ject, cousin.”

“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus,
looking very bright.”

“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see
Cassiopeia.”

“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should
you be afraid? ”

“Not in the least. It is a great while since we
have had any star-gazing.”

“Yes, I do not know how it has happened.”

150

MANSFIELD PARK.

The glee began. “We will stay till this is fin¬
ished, Fanny,” said he, turning his back on the
window ; and as it advanced, she had the mortifi¬
cation of seeing him advance too, moving forward
by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and
when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among
the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee
again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded
-away by Mrs. Norris’s threats of catching cold.

\

CHAPTER XII.

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his
eldest son had duties to call him earlier home.
The approach of September brought tidings of
Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper,
and then in a letter to Edmund; and by the end
of August he arrived himself, to be gay, agree¬
able, and gallant again as occasion served or Miss
Crawford demanded, — to tell of races and Wey¬
mouth and parties and friends, to which she
might have listened six weeks before with some
interest, and altogether to give her the fullest
conviction, by the power of actual comparison, of
her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily
sorry for it, but so it was; and so far from now
meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want
to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of
conscious beauty required. His lengthened absence
from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure in
view, and his own will to consult, made it per¬
fectly clear that he did not care about her; and
his indifference was so much more than equalled
by her own, that were he now to step forth the
owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete,
which he was to be in time, she did not believe
she could accept him.

152

MANSFIELD PARK.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Ber¬
tram back to Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into
Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him
in the beginning of September. He went for a
fortnight, — a fortnight of such dulness to the
Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on
their guard, and made even Julia admit, in her
jealousy of her sister, the absolute necessity of
distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not
to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in
the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to have
convinced the gentleman that he ought to keep
longer away, had he been more in the habit of
examining his own motives, and of reflecting to
what the indulgence of his idle vanity was tend¬
ing; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity
and bad example, he would not look beyond the
present moment. The sisters, handsome, clever,
and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated
mind; and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal
the social pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly re¬
turned to it at the time appointed, and was wel¬
comed thither quite as gladly by those whom he
came to trifle with further.

\ Maria, with only Mr. Bush worth to attend to
her, and doomed to the repeated details of his
day’s sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs, his
jealousy of his neighbors, his doubts of their quali¬
fication, and his zeal after poachers, — subjects
which will not find their way to female feelings
without some talent on one side or some attach¬
ment on the other, — had missed Mr. Crawford
grievously; and Julia, unengaged and unemployed,

MANSFIELD PARK,

153

felt all the right of missing him much more.
Each sister believed herself the favorite. Julia
might be justified in so doing by the hints of
Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished;
and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.
Everything returned into the same channel as
before his absence; his manners being to each so
animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with
either, and just stopping short of the consistence,
the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth
which might excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found
anything to dislike; but since the day at Sother-
ton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either
sister without observation, and seldom without
wonder or censure; and had her confidence in her
own judgment been equal to her exercise of it in
every other respect, had she been sui'e that she
was seeing clearly and judging candidly, she
would probably have made some important com¬
munications to her usual confidant. As it was,
however, she only hazarded a hint, and the hint
was lost. “I am rather surprised,” said she,
“ that Mr. Crawford should come back again so
soon, after being here so long before, full seven
weeks; for I had understood he was so very fond
of change and moving about, that I thought some¬
thing would certainly occur when he was once
gone, to take him elsewhere. He is used to much
gayer places than Mansfield.”

“It is to his credit,” was Edmund’s answer,
“ and I dare say it gives his sister pleasure. She
does not like his unsettled habits.’

154

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ What a favorite he is with my cousins! ”

u Yes, his manners to women are such as must
please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a
preference for Julia; I have never seen much
symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has
no faults but what a serious attachment would
remove.”

“If Miss Bertram were not engaged,” said
Fanny, cautiously, “ I could sometimes almost
think that he admired her more than Julia.”

“ Which is, perhaps, more in favor of his liking
Julia best, than you, Fanny, may be aware; for 1
believe it often happens that a man, before he has
quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the
sister or intimate friend of the woman he is really
thinking of, more than the woman herself. Craw¬
ford has too much sense to stay here if he found
himself im any danger from Maria; and -I am not
at all afraid for her, after such a proof as she has
given, that her feelings are not strong.”

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken,
and meant to think differently in future; but
with all that submission to Edmund could do, and
all the help of the coinciding looks and hints
which she occasionally noticed in some of the
others, and which seemed to say that Julia was
Mr. Crawford’s choice, she knew not always what
to think. She was privy, one evening, to the
hopes of her aunt Norris on this subject, as well
as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rush-
worth, on a point of some similarity, and could
not help wondering as she listened; and Mad
would she have been not to be obliged to listen

MANSFIELD PARK.

155

for it was while all the other young people were
dancing, and she sitting, most unwillingly, among
the chaperons at the fire, longing for the re-en¬
trance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own
hopes of a partner then depended. It was Fanny’s
first ball, though without the preparation or splen¬
dor of many a young lady’s first ball, being the
thought only of the afternoon, built on the late
acquisition of a violin-player in the servants’ hall,
and the possibility of raising five couple with the
help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr.
Bertram’s just arrived on a visit. It had, how¬
ever, been a very happy one to Fanny through four
dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even
a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing,
looking now at the dancers and now at the door,
this dialogue between the two above-mentioned
ladies was forced on her : —

“I think, ma’am,” said Mrs. ISTorris, her eyes
directed towards Mr. Bushworth and Maria, who
were partners for the second time, “we shall see
some happy faces again now.”

“Yes, ma’am, indeed,” replied the other, with
a stately simper, “there will be some satisfaction
in looking on now, and I think it was rather a pity
they should have been obliged to part. Young
folks in their situation should be excused comply¬
ing with the common forms. I wonder my son
did not propose it.”

‘ ‘ I dare say he did, ma’am. Mr. Bushworth is
never remiss. But dear Maria has such a strict
sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy
which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs

156

MANSFIELD PARK.

Rush worth, that wish of avoiding particularity!
Dear ma’am, only look at her face at this mo¬
ment, — how different from what it was the two
last dances! ”

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes
were sparkling with pleasure, and she was speak¬
ing with great animation; for Julia and her part¬
ner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her: they were
all in a cluster together. How she had looked be¬
fore, Fanny could not recollect; for she had been
dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought
about her.

Mrs. Norris continued: “It is quite delightful,
ma’am, to see young people so properly happy, so
well suited, and so much the thing! I cannot but
think of dear Sir Thomas’s delight. And what
do you say, ma’am, to the chance of another
match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example,
and such things are very catching.”

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son,
was quite at a loss. “ The couple above, ma’am.
Do you see no symptoms there? ”

“Oh dear, —Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford.
Yes, indeed, a very pretty match. What is his
property? ”

\ “ Four thousand a year.”

“Very well. Those who have not more, must
be satisfied with what they have. Four thousand
a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very o-en-

teel, steady young man; so I hope Miss Julia will
be very happy.”

‘ ^ n°t a settled thing,
only speak of it among friends.

g, ma’am, yet. Wo
ds. But I have very

MANSFIELD PARK.

157

little doubt it will be. He is growing extremely
particular in bis attentions.”

Fanny could listen no further. Listening and
wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr.
Bertram was in the room again; and though feel¬
ing it would he a great honor to he asked by him,
she thought it must happen. He came towards
their little circle; but instead of asking her to
dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an ac¬
count of the present state of a sick horse, and the
opinion of the groom, from whom he had just
parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and
in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that
she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When
he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from
the table, and looking over it said in a languid
way, “ If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand
up with you.” With more than equal civility the
offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. “I
am glad of it,” said he, in a much brisker tone,
and throwing down the newspaper again, “for I
am tired to death. I only wonder how the good
people can keep it up so long. They had need be
all in love, to find any amusement in such folly, —
and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you
may see they are so many couple of lovers, — all
but Yates and Mrs. Grant, — and between our¬
selves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as
much as any one of them. A desperate dull life
hers must be with the doctor,” making a sly face
as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who
proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made
so instantaneous a change of expression and sub-

158

MANSFIELD PARK.

ject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything,
could hardly help laughing at. “A strange busi¬
ness this in America, Dr. Grant ! What is your
opinion ? I always come to you to know what I
am to think of public matters.”

“My dear Tom,” cried his aunt, soon after¬
wards, “as you are not dancing, I dare say you
will have no objection to join us in a rubber;
shall you?” then, leaving her seat, and coming
to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper:
“We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth,
you know. Your mother is quite anxious about
it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down
herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I
and Dr. Grant will just do; and though we play
but half-crowns, you know you may bet half¬
guineas with him.”

“I should be most happy,” replied he, aloud,
and jumping up with alacrity, “ it would give me
the greatest pleasure, but that I am this moment
going to dance. Come, Fanny,” taking her hand,
“do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance
will be over.”

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was
impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards
her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did,
between the selfishness of another person and
his own.

“ A pretty modest request, upon my word!” he
indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. “ To
want to nail me to a card-table for the next two
hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always
quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who

MANSFIELD PARK.

159

knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish
my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to
ask me in such a way too ! without ceremony, be¬
fore them all, so as to leave me no possibility of
refusing ! That is what I dislike most particu-
larly. It raises my spleen more than anything,
to have the pretence of being asked, of being given
a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a
way as to oblige one to do the very thing, — what
ever it be ! If I had not luckily thought of stand¬
ing up with you, I could not have got out of it. It
is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has
got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her.”

CHAPTER XIII.

The Honorable John Yates, this new friend, had
not much to recommend him beyond habits of
fashion and expense, and being the younger son
of. a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir
Thomas would probably have thought his introduc¬
tion at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.
Bertram’s acquaintance with him had begun at
Weymouth, where they had spent ten days to¬
gether in the same society; and the friendship if
friendship it might be called, had been proved and
perfected by Mr. Yates’s being invited to take
Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by
his promising to come; and he did come rather
earlier than had been expected, in consequence of
ie sudden breaking up of a large party assembled
tor gayety at the house of another friend, which he
had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings
of disappointment, and with his head full of act¬
ing, for it had been a theatrical party; and the
play m which he had borne a part was within two
days of representation, when the sudden death of
one of the nearest connections of the family had
destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers
To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the

IrLTff A" Pr"Se °f tlM I^vale theatricals
at Ecclesford, the seat of the Eight Hoc. Lord

MANSFIELD PARK.

161

Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have
immortalized the whole party for at least a twelve-
month ! and being so near, to lose it all, was an
injury to he keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk
of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with
its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes,
was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the
past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so gen¬
eral, an itch for acting so strong among young
people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest
of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts
to the epilogue, it was all bewitching, and there
were few who did not wish to have been a party
concerned, or would have hesitated to try their
skill. The play had been “ Lovers’ Vows,” and
Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. “A
trifling part,” said he, “and not at all to my
taste, and such a one as I certainly would not
accept again; hut I was determined to make no
difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had
appropriated the only two characters worth playing
before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ra-
venshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impos¬
sible to take it, you know. I was sorry for him
that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he
was no more equal to the Baron, — a little man,
with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten
minutes. It must have injured the piece materi¬
ally; but I was resolved to make no difficulties.
Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Fred¬
erick, hut that was because Sir Henry wanted the
part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best

VOL. i. — ll

162

MANSFIELD PARK.

hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sil
Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the
piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was
inimitable, and the duke was thought very great
by many. And upon the whole it would certainly
have gone off wonderfully. ’ ’

‘ ‘ It was a hard case, upon my word, ’ ’ and, ‘ ‘ I do
think you were very much to be pitied,” were the
kind responses of listening sympathy.

“It is not worth complaining about, but to be
sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a
worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing
that the news could have been suppressed for just
the three days we wanted. It was but three days;
and being only a grandmother, and all happening
two hundred miles off, I think there would have
been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know ;
but Lord Ravensliaw, who I suppose is one of
the most correct men in England, would not hear
of it.”

“An after-piece instead of a comedy,” said Mr.
Bertram. “ ‘Lovers’ Vows ’ were at an end, and
Lord and Lady Ravensliaw left to act my Grand¬
mother by themselves. Well, the jointure may
comfort him; and perhaps, between friends, he
bfcgaii to tremble for his credit and his lungs in
the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to
make you amends, Yates, I think we must raise a
little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our
manager.”

This, though the thought of the moment, did
not end with the moment; for the inclination to
act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than

MANSFIELD PARK.

163

111 hlm w}l0 was now master of the house, and who,
having so much leisure as to make almost any
novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree
of lively talents and comic taste as were exactly
adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought re¬
turned again and again. “ Oh for the Ecclesford
theatre and scenery to try something with ! ” Each
sister could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford,
to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications, it was
yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the
idea. “I really believe,” said he, “I could be
fool enough at this moment to undertake any char¬
acter that ever was written, from Shylock or
Richard III. down to the singing hero of a farce
in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I
could be.anything or everything, as if I could rant
and storm, or sigh, or cut capers in any tragedy
or comedy in the English language. Let us be
doing something. Be it only half a play, —an
act, a scene; what should prevent us? Hot these
countenances, I am sure,” looking towards the
IVIiss Bertrams; “and for a theatre, what signifies
a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves.
Any room in this house might suffice.”

“ We must have a curtain,” said Tom Bertram,

“ a few yards of green baize for a curtain, and per¬
haps that may be enough.”

“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with
only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat,
and three or four scenes to be let down ; nothing
more would be necessary on such a plan as this.
Eor mere amusement among ourselves, we should
want nothing more.”

164

MANSFIELD PARK.

“I believe we must be satisfied with less,” said
Maria. “There would not be time, and other dif¬
ficulties would arise. We must rather adopt Mr.
Crawford’s views, and make the performance, not
the theatre, our object. Many parts of our best
plays are independent of scenery.”

“Nay, ” said Edmund, who began to listen with
alarm. “Let us do nothing by halves. If we are
to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted up
with pit, box, and gallery, and let us have a play
entire from beginning to end; so as it be a Herman
play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shift¬
ing after-piece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe,
and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo
Ecclesford, we do nothing.”

“Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,” said
Julia. “Nobody hums a play better than you do,
or can have gone much farther to see one.”

“ True, to see real acting, good hardened real
acting; but I would hardly walk from this room to
the next to look at the raw efforts of those who
have not been bred to the trade, — a set of gentle¬
men and ladies, who have all the disadvantages of
education and decorum to struggle through. ”

: After a short pause, however, the subject still
continued, and was discussed with unabated eager¬
ness, every one’s inclination increasing by the dis¬
cussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the
rest ; and though nothing was settled but that Tom
Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters
and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing
hi the world could be easier than to find a piece
which would please them all, the resolution to act

MANSFIELD PARK,

165

something or other seemed so decided as to make
Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined
to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who
equally heard the conversation which passed at
table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity
of trying his strength. ' Maria, Julia, Henry Craw¬
ford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room,
where Edmund was standing thoughtfully by the
(ire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little
distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her
work, thus began as he entered, —

“Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is
not to be met with, I believe, above ground! I
can stand it no longer, and I think I may say that
nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one
good thing I have just ascertained, — it is the very
room for a theatre, precisely the shape and length
for it; and the doors at the farther end, communi¬
cating with each other, as they may be made to do
in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase
in my father’s room, is the very thing we could
have desired, if we had set down to wish for it.
And my father’s room will be an excellent green¬
room. It seems to join the billiard-room on
purpose.”

“You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to
act? ” said Edmund, in a low voice, as his brother
approached the fire.

“Hot serious! Never more so, I assure you.
What is there to surprise you in it?”

“I think it would be very wrong. In a gen

166

MANSFIELD PARK.

eral light, private theatricals are open to some
objections; but as we are circumstanced, I must
think it would be highly injudicious, and more
than injudicious, to attempt anything of the kind.
It would show great want of feeling on my father’s
account, absent as he is, and In some degree of
constant danger; and it would be imprudent, I
think, with regard to Maria, whose situation is
a very delicate one, considering everything, ex¬
tremely delicate.”

“You take up a thing so seriously! as if we
were going to act three times a week till my
father s return, and invite all the country. But
it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean
nothing but a little amusement among ourselves,
just to vary the scene, and exercise our powers
in something new. We want no audience, no
publicity. We may be trusted, I think, in choos¬
ing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger
to any of us in conversing in the elegant language
of some respectable author than in chattering m
words of our own. I have no fears and no scru¬
ples. And as to my father’s being absent, it is
so far from an objection that I consider it rather
al- a motive; for the expectation of his return
must be a very anxious period to my mother; and
if we can be the means of amusing that anxiety
and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks
I shall think our time very well spent, and so

IZ rT Wi" B " a ”7 aMi0M period

As he said this, each looked

towards their

MANSFIELD PARK.

167

mother. Lady Bertram, sunk back in one corner
of the sofa, — the picture of health, wealth, ease,
and tranquillity, — was just falling into a gentle
dose; while Fanny was getting through the few
difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled, and shook his head.

“By Jove! this won’t do,” cried Tom, throw¬
ing himself into a chair with a hearty laugh.
“ lo be sure, may dear mother, your anxiety, — I
was unlucky there.”

“ WTiat is the matter? ” asked her Ladyship,
in the heavy tone of one half roused: “I was
not asleep.”

“ Oh dear, no, ma’am, — nobody suspected you.
— Well, Edmund,” he continued, returning to
the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as
Lady Bertram began to nod again, “but this
I will maintain, — that we shall be doing no
harm . ’ ’

“I cannot agree with you, — I am convinced
that my father would totally disapprove it.”

“And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody
is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people,
or promotes it more, than my father; and for
anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind,

I think he has always a decided taste. I am sure
he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a
time have we mourned over the dead body of
Julius Caesar, and to be’d and not to be’d in this
very room for his- amusement! And I am sure,
my name was Norval every evening of my life
through one Christmas holidays.”

“ It was a very different thing. You must

168

MANSFIELD PARK.

see the difference yourself. My father wished
us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would
never wish his grown-up daughters to be acting
plays. His sense of decorum is strict.”

“I know all that,” said Tom, displeased. “I
know my father as well as you do; and I ’ll take
care that his daughters do nothing to distress
him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and
I’ll take care of the rest of the ftimily. ”

“If you are resolved on acting,” replied the
persevering Edmund, “I must hope it will be
in a very small and quiet way, and I think a
theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be
taking liberties with my father’s house in his
absence which could not be justified.”

“For everything of that nature I will be an¬
swerable,” said Tom, in a decided tone. “His
house shall not be hurt, I have quite as great an in¬
terest in being careful of his house as you can
have; and as to such alterations as I was suo-gest-
ing just now, such as moving a bookcase, oT un¬
locking a door, or even as using the billiard-room
tor the space of a week without playing at billiards
in it you might just as well suppose he would
object to our sitting more in this room and less
3,n the breakfast-room than we did before he went
away, or to my sister’s pianoforte being moved from

one side of the room to the other. Absolute
nonsense!” DS01ute

“ 'rhe 1 ^novation, if not wrong as an innovation
will be wrong as an expense.” ’

“Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would
be « might „„st agXb

MANSFIELD PARK.

169

twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must
have undoubtedly, hut it will be on the simplest
plan, — a green curtain and a little carpenter’s work,
and that s all; and as the carpenter’s woi’k may
he all done at home by Christopher Jackson him¬
self, it will be too absurd to talk of expense; and
as long as J ackson is employed, everything will be
right with Sir Thomas. Don’t imagine that no¬
body in this house can see or judge but yourself.
Don’t act yourself, if you do not like it; hut don’t
expect to govern everybody else.”

“No, as to acting myself,” said Edmund, “that
I absolutely protest against.”

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and
Edmund was left to sit down and stir the fire in
thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund
company in every feeling throughout the whole,
now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest
some comfort: “Perhaps they may not he able to
find any play to suit them. Your brother’s taste
and your sisters’ seem very different.”

“I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist
in the scheme, they will find something. I shall
speak to my sisters, and try to dissuade them; and
that is all I can do.”

“I should think my aunt Norris would be on
your side.”

“ I dare say she would, but she has no influence
with either Tom or my sisters that could be of any
use; and if I cannot convince them myself, I shall
let tilings take their course, without attempting it
through her. Family squabbling is the greatest

170

MANSFIELD PARK.

evil of all, and we had better do anything than be
altogether by the ears.”

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of
speaking the next morning, were quite as impa¬
tient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his rep¬
resentation, quite as determined in the cause of
pleasure, as Tom. Their mother had no objection
to the plan, and they were not in the least afraid
of their father’s disapprobation. There could be
no harm in what had been done in so many respect¬
able families, and by so many women of the first
consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run
mad, that could see anything to censure in a plan
like theirs, comprehending only brothers and sis¬
ters, and intimate friends, and which would never
be heard of beyond themselves. Julia did seem
inclined to admit that Maria’s situation might re¬
quire particular caution and delicacy, but that
could not extend to her, - she was at liberty; and
Maria evidently considered her engagement as only
raising her so much more above restraint, and
ieavmg her less occasion than Julia to consult
either father or mother. Edmund had little to
ope, but he was still urging the subject, when
Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the
parsonage, calling out: “Ho want of hands in our
theatre, Miss Bertram. Ho want of under-strap-
pers my sister desires her love, and hopes to be
admitted into the company, and will be happy to
take the part of any old duenna or tame confidant
that you may not like to do yourselves. ”

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant-
What say you now? Can we be wrong if Mnry

MANSFIELD PARK.

171

Crawford feels the same? ” And Edmund, silenced,
was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of act¬
ing might well carry fascination to the mind of
genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to dwell
more on the obliging, accommodating purport of
the message than on anything else.

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain;
and as to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in suppos¬
ing she would wish to make any. She started no
difficulties that were not talked down in five min¬
utes by her eldest nephew and niece, who were all
powerful with her; and as the whole arrangement
was to bring very little expense to anybody, and
none at all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the
comforts of hurry, bustle, and importance, and
derived the immediate advantage of fancying her¬
self obliged to leave her own house, where she had
been living a month at her own cost, and take up
her abode in theirs, that every hour might be spent
in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly
delighted with the project.

CHAPTER XIV.

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund
had supposed. The business of finding a play that
would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and
the carpenter had received his orders and taken his
measurements, had suggested and removed at least
two sets of difficulties, and having made the neces¬
sity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully
e^ ident, was already at woi'k, while a play was
still to seek. Other preparations were also in
hand. An enormous roll of green baize had ar¬
rived from Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs.
Norris (with a saving, by her good management,
of full three quarters of a yard), and was actually
forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and still
the play was wanting; and as two or three days
passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost
to hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be at¬
tended to, so many people to be pleased, so many
best characters required, and above all, such a need
that the play should be at once both tragedy and
comedy, that there did seem as little chance of a
decision as anything pursued by youth and zeal
could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams
Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic!

MANSFIELD PARK.

173

Tom Bertram, not quite alone, because it was evi¬
dent that Mary Crawford’s wishes, though politely
Kept back, inclined the same way : but his determi¬
nateness and his power seemed to make allies
unnecessary; and independent of this great, irre¬
concilable difference, they wanted a piece contain¬
ing very few characters in the whole, but every
character first-rate, and three principal women.
All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither
Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas,
nor the Gamester presented anything that could
satisfy even the tragedians; and the Rivals, the
School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at
Law, and a long et ccetera were successively dis¬
missed with yet warmer objections. No piece could
be proposed that did not supply somebody with
a difficulty, and on one side or the other it was a
continual repetition of, “Oh, no, that will never
do. Let us have no ranting tragedies. Too many
characters. Not a tolerable woman’s part in the
play. Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would
be impossible to fill it up. One could not expect
anybody to take such a part. Nothing but buf¬
foonery from beginning to end. That might do,
perhaps, but for the low parts. If I must give my
opinion, I have always thought it the most insipid
play in the English language. I do not wish to
make objections, I shall be happy to be of any use,
but I think we could not choose worse.”

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to
observe the selfishness which, more or less dis¬
guised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering
how it would end. For her own gratification she

174

MANSFIELD PARK.

could have wished that something might he acted,
for she had never seen even half a play; but
everything of higher consequence was against it.

“ ihis will never do,” said Tom Bertram, at last.
“We are wasting time most abominably. Some¬
thing must be fixed on. Ho matter what, so that
something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A
few characters too many must not frighten us. IYe
must double them. We must descend a little. If
a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in
making anything of it. From this moment I make
no difficulties. 1 take any part you choose to give
me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I
condition for nothing more.”

For about the fifth time he then proposed the
Heir at Law, doubting only whether to prefer
ord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself, and
very earnestly but very unsuccessfully trying to
persuade the others that there were sonm fine tragic
parts m the rest of the dramatis personae.

ihe pause which followed this fruitless effort
was ended by the same speaker, who, taking up one
of the many volumes of plays that lay on the table
and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed: “Lov¬
ers Vows! And why should not Lovers’ Vows do
for us as well as for the Ravenshaws? How came

never to be thought of before? It strikes me
as i jt would do exactly. What say you all? Here
are two capital tragic parts for Yates and Crawford
and here is the rhyming Butler for me, - if nobod;
else wants it, a trifling part, but the sort of thin,

I Should not dislike, and, as I said before, I ai”
determined to take anything. and do my best. And

MANSFIELD PARK. 175

as for the rest, they may he filled up by anybody.
It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt.”

The suggestion was generally welcome. Every¬
body was growing weary of indecision; and the
first idea with everybody was that nothing had
been proposed before so likely to suit them all.
Mr. Yates was particularly pleased: he had been
sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,
had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw’s, and
been forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The
storm through Baron Wildenhaim was the height
of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage
of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he
did now with the greatest alacrity offer his ser¬
vices for the part. To do him justice, however, he
did not resolve to appropriate it; for remember¬
ing that there was some very good ranting ground
in Frederick, he professed an equal willingness
for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take
either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not choose
would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley of
compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all
the interest of an Agatha in the question, took on
her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates that
this was a point in which height and figure ought
to be considered, and that his being the tallest
seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron. She
was acknowledged to be quite right; and the two
parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain
of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters
were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was
always answered for by Maria as willing to do
anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister,

176

MANSFIELD PARK.

to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on Miss
Crawford’s account.

“This is not behaving well by the absent,”

said she. “ Here are not women enough. Amelia

and Agatha may do for Maria and me; but there
is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford ”

Mr. Crawford desired that might not be' thought
ot: he was very sure his sister had no wish of act¬
ing but as she might be useful, and that she
would not allow herself to be considered in the
present case. But this was immediately opposed
by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia
to be in every respect the property of Miss Craw-
oid, if she would accept it. “It falls as natu¬
rally as necessarily to her,” said he, “as Agatha
does to one or other of my sisters. It can he no
sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.”

A short silence followed. Each sister looked
anxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha
and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the
res . enry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken
up ie play, and with seeming carelessness was
turning over the first act, soon settled the business

„ *muat entreafc J°lia Bertram,” said he
not to engage m the part of Agatha, or it will be
e rum of all my solemnity. You must not in
deed you must not,” turning to her. « I c’02
not stand your countenance dressed up in woe
and paleness. The many laughs we have ZZ
gether would infallibly come across me and pi ]'
Zy." Ins knapsack would be obliged to ran

Pleasantly, courteously it was spoken; but the

MANSFIELD PARK.

177

manner was lost in the matter to Julia’s feelings.
She saw a glance at Maria, which confirmed the
injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she
was slighted, Maria was preferred; the smile of tri¬
umph which Maria was trying to suppress showed
how well it was understood; and before Julia
could command herself enough to speak, her
brother gave his weight against her too, by say¬
ing: “Oh, yes, Maria must be Agatha. Maria
will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies
she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it.
There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has
not the look of it. Her features are not tragic
features, and she walks too quick, and speaks too
quick, and would not keejD her countenance. She
had better do the old countrywoman, — the Cot¬
tager’s wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager’s
wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old
lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her
husband with a good deal of spirit. You shall be
Cottager’s wife.”

“ Cottager’s wife !” cried Mr. Yates. “What
are you talking of? The most trivial, paltry, in¬
significant part; the merest commonplace, — not a
tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do
that! It is an insult to propose it. At Eccles-
ford the governess was to have done it. We all
agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else.
A little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please.
You do not deserve the office, if you cannot appre¬
ciate the talents of your company a little better.”

“ Why, as to that, my good friend, till I and my
company have really acted, there must be some

VOL. i. — 12

178

MANSFIELD PARK.

guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to Julia.
We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have
one Cottager’s wife; and I am sure I set her the
example of moderation myself in being satisfied
with the old Butler. If the part is trifling, she
will have more credit in making something of it;
and if she is so desperately bent against every'
thing humorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches
instead of Cottager’s wife’s, and so change the
parts all through; he is solemn and jiathetio
enough, I am sure. It could make no difference
in the play; and as for Cottager himself, when he
has got his wife’s speeches, I would undertake him
with all my heart.”

“ With all your partiality for Cottager’s wife,”
said Henry Crawford, “ it will be impossible 'to
make anything of it fit for your sister, and we
must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on.
We must not allow her to accept the part. She
must not be left to her own complaisance. Her
talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a
character more difficult to be well represented than
even Agatha. I consider Amelia as the most diffi¬
cult character in the whole piece. It requires
great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness
and simplicity without extravagance. I have seen
good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity in
deed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress
by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeline
which they have not. It requires a gentlewoman,
-a Juba Bertram. You will undertake it, i
hope? turning. to her with a look of anxious en¬

treaty, which softened her a little; but while she

MANSFIELD PARK

179

hesitated what to say, her brother again inter¬
posed with Miss Crawford’s better claim.

“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not
at all the part for her. She would not like it.
She would not do well. She is too tall and robust.
Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping
figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss
Crawford only. She looks the part, and I am per¬
suaded will do it admirably.”

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford con¬
tinued his supplication. “You must oblige us,”
said he; “indeed you must. When you have
studied the character, I am sure you will feel it
suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will
certainly appear that comedy chooses you. You
will be to visit me in prison with a basket of pro¬
visions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison?
I think I see you coming in with your basket.”

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wa¬
vered; but was he only trying to soothe and pacify
her, and make her overlook the previous affront?
She distrusted him. The slight had been most de¬
termined. He was, perhaps, but at treacherous
play with her. She looked suspiciously at her
sister. Maria’s countenance was to decide it; if
she were vexed and alarmed — • but Maria looked
all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew
that on this ground Maria could not be happy but
at her expense. With hasty indignation, there¬
fore, and a tremulous voice, she said to him: “You
do not seem afraid of not keeping your counte¬
nance when I come in with a basket of provisions
— though one might have supposed — but it is

180

MANSPIELD PARK.

only as Agatha that X was to be so overpowering! ”
She stopped. Henry Crawford looked rather
foolish, and as if he did not know what to say.
Tom Bertram began again, —

“ Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be
an excellent Amelia.”

“ Do not be afraid of my wanting the character, ”
ciied Julia, with angry quickness. “I am not to
be Agatha, and I am sure I will do nothing else;
and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the
most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An
odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I
have always protested against comedy, and this is
comedy in its worst form.” And so saying she
walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkward
feelings to more than one, but exciting small com¬
passion m any except Fanny, who had been a
quiet auditor of the whole, and who could not
think of her as under the agitations of jealousy
without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but
her brother soon returned to business and Lovers’
Vows and was eagerly looking over the play,
wi Mr. Yates s help, to ascertain what scenery
would be necessary, -while Maria and Henry
Crawford conversed together in an under voice-
and the declaration with which she began of “T
am sure I would give up the part to Julia most
willingly but that though I shall probably doit
veiy ill, 1 fee! persuaded she would do it worse ”

Zed hr nCeiriRg aU ‘,,e «

When this had lasted some time, the division

MANSFIELD PARK.

18i

of the party was completed by Tom Bertram and
Mr. Yates walking off together to consult further
in the room now beginning to be called the
Theatre, and Miss Bertram’s resolving to go
down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of
Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained
alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to
take up the volume which had been left on the
table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play
of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity
was all awake, and she ran through it with an
eagerness which was suspended only by intervals
of astonishment that it could be chosen in the
present instance, — that it could be proposed and
accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia
appeared to her in their different ways so totally
improper for home representation — the situation
of one, and the language of the other, so unfit to
be expressed by any woman of modesty — that she
could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware
of what they were engaging in, and longed to
have them roused as soon as possible by the
remonstrance which Edmund would certainly
make.

CHAPTER XV.

Mrss Crawford accepted the part very readily ,
and soon after Miss Bertram’s return from the
Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another
character was consequently cast. He had the offer
of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first did not
know which to choose, and wanted Miss Bertram

J? dl^ him; but uPon being made to understand
the different style of the characters, and which
was which, and recollecting that he had once seen
the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a
very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count
Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less
ie had to learn the better; and though she could
not sympathize m his wish that the Count and
gatha might be to act together, nor wait very
patiently while he was slowly turning over the
leaves with the hope of still discovering such a
,cene she very kindly took his part in hand, and
curtailed every speech that admitted being short
ei^d; besides pointing out the necessity of his
being very much dressed, and choosing hi colors
Mr Rushworth liked the idea of liis finery vmw
well though affecting to despise it; and was too

much engaged with what his own appearan c
would be to think of tlm appearance

those conclusions or feel any of^t^t ^ ariy of

wWch Maria had been hai£ prepaid

MANSFIELD PARK.

183

Ihus much was settled before Edmund, who had
been out all the morning, knew anything of the
matter; but when he entered the drawing-room
before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high
between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates; and Mr.
Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to
tell him the agreeable news.

“We have got a play,” said he. “It is to be
Lovers’ Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and
am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink
satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine
fancy suit by way of a shooting-dress. I do not
know lmw I shall like it.”

Fanny’s eyes followed Edmund, and her heart
beat for him as she heard this speech, and saw his
look, and felt what his sensations must be.

“Lovers’ Vows! ” in a tone of the greatest
amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth;
and he turned towards his brother and sisters as
if hardly doubting a contradiction.

“Yes,” cried Mr. Yates. “After all our de-
batings and difficulties, we find there is nothing
that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so
unexceptionable, as Lovers’ Vows. The wonder
is that it should not have been thought of before.
My stupidity was abominable, for here we have
all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and
it is so useful to have anything of a model! We
have cast almost every part.”

“But what do you do for women?” said Ed¬
mund, gravely, and looking at Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she an¬
swered, “I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw

184

MANSFIELD PARK.

was to have done; and,” with a bolder eye, “ Miss
Crawford is to be Amelia.”

“ I should not have thought it the sort of play
to be so easily filled up with us,” replied Edmund,
turning away to the fire, where sat his mother,
aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look
of great vexation.

Mr. Rush worth followed him to say: “I come
in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches.
That ’s something, is not it ? But I do not much
like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly

know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin
cloak.”

Edmund could not answer him. In a few min¬
utes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to
satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being
accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon
afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost
immediately took the opportunity of sayino-; “j
cannot before Mr. Yates speak what I feel '’as to
tins play, without reflecting on his friends at
cclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell
you that I think it exceedingly unfit for private
representation, and that I hope you will give it
up. I cannot but suppose you will when you have
i*,ad it carefully over. Bead only the first act
aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how
you can approve it. It will not be necessarv

fath“’S 1*^ 1 -

t( “ We See. thinSs very differently,” cried Maria
I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assur '

you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth.

MANSFIELD PARK.

185

which will be made of course, I can see nothing
objectionable in it; and I am not the only young
woman you find who thinks it very fit for private
representation . ’ ’

“I am sorry for it, ” was his answer; “but in
this matter it is you who are to lead. You must
set the example. If others have blundered, it is
your place to put them right, and show them what
true delicacy is. In all points of decorum, your
conduct must be law to the rest of the party.”

This picture of her consequence had some effect,
for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and
with far more good-humor she answered: “I am
much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very
well, I am sure: but I still think you see things
too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to
harangue all the rest upon a subject of this
kind. There would be the greatest indecorum, I
think.”

i ‘ Do you imagine that I could have such an
idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the
only harangue. Say that, on examining the part,
you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it
requiring more exertion and confidence than you
can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness,
and it will be quite enough. All who can distin¬
guish will understand your motive. The play
will be given up, and your delicacy honored as it
ought.”

“Do not act anything improper, my dear,” said
Lady Bertram; “Sir Thomas would not like it.
Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.
To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time.”

186

MANSFIELD PARK.

“I am convinced, madam, ” said Edmund, pre¬
venting Fanny, “that Sir Thomas would not
like it.”

There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund
says? ”

,‘‘If 1 were to feline the part,” said Maria,
wuh renewed zeal, “Julia would certainly take

It.

“What!” cried Edmund, “if she knew your
reasons?”

“°h, she might think the difference between
us, the difference m our situations, — that she
need not be so scrupulous as I might feel necessary
I am sure she would argue so. No; you must
excuse me I cannot retract my consent; it is too
far settled everybody would be so disappointed,
Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very
nice, we shall never act anything.”

• i ^ aS §'°^ng t° say the very same thing, ”

ie^ed to' iS„ “I£ e™r}' P,V is be »b‘

io„« w,ii f" ,T Mt nothing’ “d tlle PrePara-
Tt W,U be aIi 80 mnch money thrown aWav

ri1:: rr 'tm b* * ***«■»* M

Lt tnr th8 PWi bat, as Maria says, if

thee is anything a little too warm (and it js

ust not be oyer-precise, Edmund. As Mr
Eushworth is to act too, there can h. I
I only wish Tom lnrl 1 i • 110 harm.

curtain will be a good job, however TU /

do their work very well and T tv i T maids
y ’ and 1 thluk we shall be

MANSFIELD PARK.

187

able to send back some dozens of the rings.
There is no occasion to put them so very close to¬
gether. I am of some use, I hope, in preventing
waste and making the most of things. There
should always be one steady head to superintend
so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of
something that happened to me this very day. I
had been looking about me in the poultry-yard,
and was just coming out, when who should I see
but Dick Jackson making up to the servants’ hall
door with two bits of deal board in his hand,
bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother
had chanced to send him of a message to father,
and then father had bid him bring up them two
bits of board, for he could not nohow do without
them. I knew what all this meant, for the ser¬
vants’ dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment
over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching
people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have
always said so, — just the sort of people to get all
they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lub¬
berly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought
to be ashamed of himself), ‘I’ll take the boards
to your father, Dick; so get you home again as
fast as you can.’ The boy looked very silly, and
turned away without offering a word, for I believe
I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will
cure him of coming marauding about the house
for one while. I hate such greediness, — so good
as your father is to the family, employing the
man all the year round! ”

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer. The
others soon returned; and Edmund found that to

188

MANSFIELD PARK.

have endeavored to set them right must be his
only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related
again her triumph over Dick Jackson; but neither
play nor preparation was otherwise much talked
of, for Edmund’s disapprobation was felt even by
his brother, though he would not have-owned it
Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s animating sup¬
port, thought the subject better avoided. Mr.
Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable
to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on
any topic than that of his regret at her secession
from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having
on y his own part and his own dress in his head, had
soon talked away all that could be said of either
But the concerns of the theatre were suspended
only for an hour or two: there was still a great
deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening giv¬
ing fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yats
soon after their being re-assembled in the draw-

seatec! thrnseives in c°™ttee at a sep-

arate table, with the play open before them and
were just getting deep in the subject, when a most
welcome interruption was given by the *

of Mr. and Mass Craw,or|

dirty as it was, could not help coming and

'waiiT W the 'U08t joy.

Well, how do you goon?” and « WW h
you settled? ” and “ Oh, we can ds D ^ 1
out you,” followed the first saint
Henr, Crawford * soon ^

hroo at the table, while Ids sister 0thei

to Lad, Bertram, and with pleasant

MANSFIELD PARK.

189

was complimenting her. “ I must really congratu¬
late your Ladyship,” said she, “on the play be¬
ing chosen; for though you have borne it with
exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick
of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may
be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely
more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely
give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and
everybody else who is in the same predicament,”
glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny
to Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram,
but Edmund said nothing. His being only a by.
stander was not disclaimed. After continuing in
chat witb the party round the fire a few minutes,
Miss Crawford returned to the party round the
table; and standing by them, seemed to interest
herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by
a sudden recollection, she exclaimed: “My good
friends, you are most composedly at work upon
these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but
pray let me know my fate in the mean while. Who
is to be Anhalt? What gentleman among you am
I to have the pleasure of making love to? ”

For a moment no one spoke ; and then many spoke
together to tell the same melancholy truth, — that
they had not yet got any Anhalt. “Mr. Rush-?
worth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet
undertaken Anhalt.”

“I had my choice of the parts, ! ’ said Mr. Rush-
worth; “but I thought I should like the Count
best, — though I do not much relish the finery I
am to have.”

190

MANSFIELD PARK.

“You chose very wisely, I am sure,” replied
Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; “Anhalt
is a heavy part.”

“The Count has two-and-forty speeches,’' re¬
turned Mr. Rushworth, “which is no trifle.”

c t X , . . _

!I am not at all surprised,” said Miss Craw¬

ford, after a short pause, “at this want of an An¬
halt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward
young lady may well frighten the men.”

“ I should be but too happy in taking the part,
if it were possible,” cried Tom; “but unluckily
the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I will not
entirely give it up, however, — I will try what can
be done, — I will look it over again.”

Your brother should take the part,” said Mr.

Yates, m a low voice. “Do not you think he
would ? ”

‘I shall not ask him,” replied Tom, in a cold
determined manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and
soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire
“ They do not want me at all, » said she, seating
herself. I only puzzle them, and oblige them to
make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram as
you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested

therfrf } “> yov. What

shall we do for an Anhalt ? Is it practicable for

advice?”6 “ d0nMe it? What is

My advice,” said he, calmly, “is that
change the play.” 18 that

“I should have no objection, "she replied; “for

■hough I should not particularly dislike the part of

MANSFIELD PARK.

191

Amelia if well supported, — that is, if everything
went well, — I shall be sorry to be an inconven¬
ience; but as they do not choose to hear your ad¬
vice at that table, ” looking round, “it certainly
will not be taken.”

Edmund said no more.

“If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it
would be Anhalt;” observed the lady, archly, after
a short pause; “ for he is a clergyman, you know.”

“That circumstance would by no means tempt
me,” he replied, “for I should be sorry to make
the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must
be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a
formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chooses
the profession itself is perhaps one of the last who
would wish to represent it on the stage.”

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feel¬
ings of resentment and mortification, moved her
chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and gave
all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding
there.

“Fanny,” cried Tom Bertram, from the other
table, where the conference was eagerly carrying
on, and the conversation incessant, “we want
your services.”

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some
errand; for the habit of employing her in that way
was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund
could do.

“ Oh, we do not want to disturb you from your
seat. We do not want your present services. We
shall only want you in our play. You must be
Cottager’s wife.”

192

MANSFIELD PARK.

“Me! ” cried Fanny, sitting down again with a
most frightened look. “Indeed you must excuse
me. I could not act anything if you were to give
me the world. Ho, indeed, I cannot act.'’

“ Indeed, . hut you must, for we cannot excuse
you. It need not frighten you; it i? a nothing of
a part, a mere nothing, not above half-a-dozen
speeches altogether, and it will not much signify
if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as
creepmouse as you like, but we must have you to
look at.”

“If you are afraid of half-a-dozen speeches,”
cried Mr. Eush worth, “what would you do with
such a part as mine ? I have forty-two to learn.”

“ It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,”
said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment
the only speaker in the room, and to feel that al¬
most every eye was upon her; “ but I really can¬
not act.”

“Yes, yes, you can act well enough for us.
Learn your part, and we will teach you all the
rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall be
Cottager, I ’ll put you in and push you about ; and
you will do it very well, I ’ll answer for it.”

“Ho, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse
You cannot have an idea. It would be ab¬
solutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake
it, I should only disappoint you.”

Phoo ! Phoo ! Do not be so shamefaced.
You ’ll do it very well. Every allowance will be
made for you. We do not expect perfection. You
mast get a brown gown and a white apron and a
mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles

MANSFIELD PARK.

193

and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your
eyes, and you will be a very proper little old
woman.”

“ You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse
me,” cried Fanny, growing more and more red
from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully
at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but
unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference,
gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty
had no effect on Tom: he only said again what
he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for
the requisition was now hacked by Maria and Mr.
Crawford and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which
differed from his but in being more gentle or more
ceremonious, and which altogether was quite over¬
powering to Fanny; and before she could breathe
after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole, by thus
addressing her in a whisper at once angry and
audible: “ What a piece of work here is about
nothing, — I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to
make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in
a trifle of this sort, — so kind as they are to you !
Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear
no more of the matter, I entreat.”

“ Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It
is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see
she does not like to act. Let her choose for her¬
self as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may
be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any
more.”

“I am not going to urge her,” replied Mrs.
Norris, sharply; “but I shall think her a very
obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what

VOL. i. — 13

194

MANSFIELD PARK.

her aunt and cousins wish her, — very ungrateful,
indeed, considering who and what she is.”

Edmund was too angry to speak; hut Miss. Craw¬
ford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at
Mrs. Norris, and then at Eanny, whose tears were
beginning to show themselves, immediately said,
with some keenness: “I do not like my situation;
this place is too hot for me,” and moved away
her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to
Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as
she placed herself, “Never mind, my dear Miss
Price; this is a cross evening, — everybody is
cross and teasing, — but do not let us mind them; ”
and with pointed attention continued to talk to her
and endeavor to raise her spirits, in spite of being
out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she
prevented any further entreaty from the theatrical
board, and the really good feelings by which she
was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring
liei to all the little she had lost in Edmund,s
favor.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford : but she felt
very much obliged to her for her present kind¬
ness; and when from taking notice of her work,
and wishing she could work as well, and begging
fo.xthe pattern, and supposing Fanny was now pre¬
paring for her appearance, as of course she would
come out when her cousin was married, Miss Craw¬
ford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately
from her brother at sea, and said that she had
quite a- curiosity to see him, and imagined him a
very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his
picture drawn before he went to sea again, she

MANSFIELD PARK.

195

could not help admitting it to be very agreeable
flattery, or help listening and answering with
more animation than she had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on;
and Miss Crawford’s attention was first called from
Fanny .by Tom Bertram’s telling her, with infinite
regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for
him to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to
the Butler: he had been most anxiously trying
to make it out to be feasible, but it would not
do, — he must give it up. “But there will not
be the smallest difficulty in filling it,” lie added.
“We have but to speak the word; we may pick
and choose. I could name at this moment at least
six young men within six miles of us, who are
wild to be admitted into our company, and there
are one or two that would not disgrace us, — I
should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers
or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever
fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a
man as you will see anywhere; so I will take my
horse early to-morrow morning and ride over to
Stoke, and settle with one of them.”

While he spoke Maria was looking apprehen¬
sively round at Edmund, in full expectation
that he must oppose such an enlargement of the
plan as this, — so contrary to all their first protes¬
tations; but Edmund said nothing. After a mo
ment’s thought Miss Crawford calmly replied
“As far as I am concerned, I can have no objeC
tion to anything that you all think eligible.
Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes,
Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister’s one day,

196

MANSFIELD PARK.

did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young x an.
I remember him. Let him be applied to, if you
please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than
to have a perfect stranger.”

Charles Maddox was to he the man. Tom re¬
peated his resolution of going to him early on
the moi’row; and though Julia, who had scarcely
opened her lips before, observed in a sarcastic
manner, and with a glance first at Maria and then
at Edmund, that “the Mansfield theatricals would
enliven the whole neighborhood exceedingly,” Ed¬
mund still held his peace, and showed his feelings
only by a detei'mined gravity.

“I am not very sanguine as to our play,” said
Miss Crawford, in an under voice to Fanny, after
some consideration; “ and I can tell Mr. Maddox
that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a
g1 eat many of my own befoi'e we l’ehearse together.
It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what
I expected.”

CHAPTER XVI.

It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to tali
Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what had
passed. When the evening was over, she went to
bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the
shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom, so
public and so persevered in, and her spirits sink¬
ing under her aunt’s unkind reflection and re¬
proach. To be called into notice in such a manner,
to hear that it was but the prelude to something so
infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what
was so impossible as to act; and then to have the
charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, en¬
forced with such a hint at the dependence of her
situation, had been too distressing at the time to
make the remembrance when she was alone much
less SOj — especially with the superadded dread of
what the morrow might produce in continuation of
the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her
only for the time; and if she were applied to
again among themselves with all the authoritative
urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and
Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She
fell asleep before she could answer the question,
and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the
next morning. The little white attic, vluch had
continued her sleeping-room ever since her first

198

MANSFIELD PARK.

entering the family, proving incompetent to sug¬
gest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she
was dressed, to another apartment more spacious
and more meet for walking about in and think¬
ing, and of which she had now for some time been
almost equally mistress. It had .been their school¬
room ; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not
allow it 'to be called so any longer, and inhabited
as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had
lived, and there they had read and written and
talked and laughed, till within the last three years,
when she had quitted them. The room had then
become useless, and for some time was quite de¬
serted, except by Fanny, when she visited her
plants, or wanted one of the books which she was
still glad to keep there from the deficiency of space
and accommodation in her little chamber above:
but gradually, as her value for the comforts of it
increased, she had added to her possessions, and
spent more of her time there; and having nothin «*
o oppose her had so naturally and so artlessly
worked herse i into it that it was now generally
admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had
been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen
vas now considered Fanny’s almost as decidedly
a^the white attic; the smallness of the one mak
i,ng the use of the other so evident! v vpqc n
that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in
their own apartments which their own sense of
superiority could demand, were entirely a
it; and Mrs. Norris, haling
never being a fire in it „ ‘J" for

tolerably resigned to her having i ^

iy s account, was
what

MANSFIELD PARK.

199

nobody else wanted, though the terms in which
she sometimes spoke of the indulgence seemed to
imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favorable that even without a
fire it was habitable in many an early spring and
late autumn morning, to such a willing mind as
Fanny’s ; and while there was a gleam of sunshine,
she hoped not to be driven from it entirely, even
when winter came. The comfort of it in her
hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there
after anything unpleasant below, and find imme¬
diate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of
thought at hand. Her plants, her hooks, — of
which she had been a collector, from the first hour
of her commanding a shilling, — her writing-desk,
and her works of charity and ingenuity were all
within her reach; or if indisposed for employment,
if nothing hut musing would do, she could scarcely
see an object in that room which had not an inter¬
esting remembrance connected with it. Every¬
thing was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a
friend; and though there had been sometimes
much of suffering to her, — though her motives
had been often misunderstood, her feelings disre¬
garded, and her comprehension undervalued, —
though she had known the pains of tyranny, of
ridicule, and neglect, — yet almost every recur¬
rence of either had led to something consolatory:
her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee
had been encouraging, or what was yet more fre¬
quent or more dear, Edmund had been her cham¬
pion and her friend, — he had supported her cause
or explained her meaning, he had told her not to

200

MANSFIELD PARK.

cry, or had given her some proof of affection which
made her tears delightful, — and the whole was
now so blended together, so harmonized by dis¬
tance, that every former affliction had its charm.
The room was most dear to her, and she would
not have changed its furniture for the handsomest
in the house, though what had been originally
plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children;
and its greatest elegances and ornaments were a
faded footstool of Julia’s work, too ill done for the
drawing-room; three transparencies, made in a rage
for transparencies, for the three lower panes of
one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station
between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in
Cumberland; a collection of family profiles thought
unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantel¬
piece; and by their side, and pinned against the
wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years
ago from the Mediterranean by William, with

“Id. M. S. Antwerp” at the bottom in letters as
tall as the mainmast.

To this nest. 0f comforts Fanny now walke
down to try its influence on an agitated, doubtin
spirit, — to see if by looking at Edmund’s profil
she could catch any of his counsel, or by givin
w t0 lier geraniums she might inhale a breeze o
mental strength herself. But she had more tha:
fears of her own perseverance to remove: she ha<
begun to feel undecided as to what she ought t
do; and as she walked round the room, her doubt
were increasing. Was she right in refusing wha
was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for
What might be so essential to a scheme on whicl

MANSFIELD PARK.

201

some of those to whom she owed the greatest
complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-
nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing her¬
self? And would Edmund’s judgment, would his
persuasion of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the
whole, be enough to justify her in a determined
denial in spite of all the rest? It would he so
horrible to her to act, that she was inclined to sus¬
pect the truth and purity of her own scruples;
and as she looked around her, the claims of her
cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the
sight of present upon present that she had received
from them. The table between the windows was
covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which
had been given her at different times, principally
by Tom ; and she grew bewildered as to the amount
of the debt which all these kind remembrances
produced. A tap at the door roused her in the
midst of this attempt to find her way to her duty,
and her gentle “Come in” was answered by the
appearance of one before whom all her doubts were
wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the
sight of Edmund.

“Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few min¬
utes ? ” said he.

“Yes, certainly.”

“ I want to consult — I want your opinion.”

“My opinion!” she cried, shrinking from such
a compliment, highly as it gratified her.

“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know
what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and
worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad
a play as they could; and now, to complete the

202

MANSFIELD PARK.

business, are going to ask the help of a young man
very slightly known to any of us. This is the end
of all the privacy and propriety which was talked
about at first. I know no harm of Charles Mad¬
dox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring
from his being admitted among us in this manner

is highly objectionable, — the more than intimacy,
the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any
patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
magnitude as must, if possible, be prevented. Do
not you see it in the same light? ”

Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is
so determined.”

There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I
must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that
nothing else will quiet Tom.”

Fanny could not answer him.

It is not at all what I like,” he continued.
“No man can like being driven into the appear
ance of such inconsistency. After being known
to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is
absurdity in the face of my joining them npw,
when they are exceeding their first plan in every

respect; but I can think of no other alternative.
Can you, Fanny? ”

bat — ”” SaidFannj> slowlD “not immediately;

W!1£d? 1 See your judgment is not with
me. Thmk it a little over. Perhaps you are not
so much aware as I am of the mischief that may,
of the unpleasantness that must, arise from a
young man’s being received in this manner, -
domesticated among us, authorized to come at all

MANSFIELD PARK.

203

hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which
must do away all restraints. To think only of
the license which every rehearsal must tend to
create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss
Crawford’s place, Fanny. Consider what it would
be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a
right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for
herself. I heard enough of what she said to you
last night, to understand her unwillingness to be
acting with a stranger; and as she probably en¬
gaged in the part with different expectations,
perhaps without considering the subject enough to
know what was likely to be, it would be ungen¬
erous, it would be really wrong to expose her to
it. Her feelings ought to be respected. Does it
not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate.”

“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more
sorry to see you drawn in to do what you have
resolved against, and what you are known to think
will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such
a triumph to the others! ”

“ They will not have much cause of triumph
when they see how infamously I act. But, how¬
ever, triumph there certainly will be, and I must
brave it. But if I can he the means of restraining
the publicity of the business, of limiting the ex¬
hibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well
repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can
do nothing; I have offended them, and they will
not hear me, but when I have put them in good
humor by this concession, I am not without hopes
of persuading them to confine the representation
within a much smaller circle than they are now in

204

MANSFIELD PARK.

the high road for. This will be a material gain.
My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushwortli and
the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining? ”

“Yes, it will be a great point.”

“But still it has not your approbation. Can
you mention any other measure by which I have a
chance of doing equal good?”

“No, I cannot think of anything else.”

“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I
am not comfortable without it.”

“Oh, cousin.”

“If you are against me, I ought to distrust my¬
self; and yet — But it is absolutely impossible
to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
country in quest of anybody who can be qiersuaded
to act, — no matter whom; the look of a gentleman
is to be enough. I thought you would have en¬
tered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.”

“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a
gieat relief to her,” said Fanny, trying for greater
warmth of manner.

“She never appeared more amiable than in her
behavior to you last night. It gave her a very
strong claim on my good-will.”

indeed, and I am glad to

“ She was very kind,
have her spared — ”

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her
conscience stopped her in the middle; but Edmund
was satisfied.

, !'la" 1"'“lk *>wn immediately after break-

thei'e S A 1 ’ “a”'3 ™ sure of giving pleasure
there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not intern ,„t

you any longer. You want to be reading. Bu i

MANSFIELD PARK.

205

could not be easy till I had spoken to you and
come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head
has been full of this matter all night. It is an
evil, — hut I am certainly making it less than it
might he. If Tom is up, I shall go to him di¬
rectly and get it over; and when we meet at
breakfast we shall he all in high good-humor at
the prospect of acting the fool together with such
unanimity. You in the mean while will be taking
a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord
Macartney go on?” opening a volume on the ta¬
ble, and then taking up some others. “And here
are Crabbe’s Tales and the Idler, at hand to
relieve you if you tire of your great book. I ad¬
mire your little establishment exceedingly ; and as
soon as I am gone you will empty your head of all
this nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down
to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.”

He went; but there was no reading, no China,
no composure for Fanny. He had told her the
most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the
most unwelcome news; and she could think of
nothing else. To be acting! After all his ob¬
jections, — objections so just and so public! After
all that she had heard him say, and seen him look,
and known him to be feeling! Could it be pos¬
sible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not
deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it
was all Miss Crawford’s doing. She had seen her
influence in every speech, and was miserable.
The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct,
which had previously distressed her, and which
had all slept while she listened to him, were

206

MANSFIELD PARK

become of little consequence now. This deeper
anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take
their course; she cared not how it ended. Her
cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her.
She was beyond their reach ; and if at last obliged
to yield, no matter, — it was all misery now.

CHAPTER XVII.

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram
and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund’s dis¬
cretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
most delightful. There was no longer anything
to disturb them in their darling project, and they
congratulated each other in private on the jealous
weakness to which they attributed the change,
with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.
Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not
like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the
play in particular; their point was gained: he was
to act, and he was driven to it by the force of
selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
from that moral elevation which he had maintained
before, and they were both as much the better as
the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to him on the
occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines
about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to
think it as great an escape to be quit of the intru¬
sion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced
into admitting him against their inclination.
“To have it quite in their own family circle was
what they had particularly wished. A stranger
among them would have been the destruction of
all their comfort;” and when Edmund, pursuing

208

MANSFIELD PARK.

that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limita¬
tion of the audience, they were ready, in the com¬
plaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It
was all good-humor and encouragement. Mrs.
Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates
assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the
Baron admitted a good deal of action and empha-
sis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his
speeches.

11 Perhaps,” said Tom, “ Fanny may he more
disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may per¬
suade her.”

She certainly

“No; she is quite determined,
will not act.”

Oh, very well.” And not another word was
said; hut Fanny felt herself again in danger, and
her indifference to *he danger was beginning to
fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage
than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss
Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness
into the whole affair, as could have but one effect
on l„m “ He rvas certainly right in respecting
snch feelings; he was glad he had determined on

‘ n<7 th,G mormnS w°re away in satisfactions

ery svveet, if not very sound. One advantage re¬
sulted from lt to Fanny ; at the earnest request of
Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual
good humor, agreed to undertake the part for
which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
that occurred to gladden her heart during tWav
an even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought

MANSFIELD PARK.

209

a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom
she was obliged, it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose
merit in making them was spoken of with a glow
of admiration. She was safe ; hut peace and safety
were unconnected here. Her mind had been never
farther from peace. She could not feel that she
had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in
every other way. Her heart and her judgment
were equally against Edmund’s decision: she could
not acquit his unsteadiness; and his happiness
under it made her wretched. She was full of jeal¬
ousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with
looks of gayety which seemed an insult, with
friendly expressions towards herself which she could
hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was
gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had
their object of interest, their part, their dress,
their favorite scene, their friends and confederates,
— all were finding employment in consultations and
comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits
they suggested. She alone was sad and insignifi¬
cant; she had no share in anything; she might go
or stay, she might be in the midst of their noise,
or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,
without being seen or missed. She could almost
think anything would have been preferable to this.
Mrs. Grant was of consequence; her good-nature
had honorable mention, her taste and her time
were considered, her presence was wanted, she
was sought for and attended and praised; and
Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her
the character she had- accepted. But leflection

VOL. i. — u

210

MANSFIELD PARK.

brought better feelings, and showed her that Mrs.
Grant was entitled to respect which could never
have belonged to her; and that had she received
even the greatest, she could never have been easy
in joining a scheme which, considering only her
uncle, she must condemn altogether.

Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only sad¬
dened one amongst them, as she soon began to ac¬
knowledge herself. Julia was a sufferer, too,
though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry .Crawford had trifled with her feelings;
but she had very long allowed and even sought his
attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so reason¬
able as ought to have been their cure; and now
that the conviction of his preference for Maria had
been forced on her, she submitted to it without
any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any endeavor at
rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in
gloomy silence, wrapped in such gravity as nothing
could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or
allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking
with forced gayety to him alone, and ridiculing the
acting of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given,
Henry Crawford had endeavored to do it away by
tlfe usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but
he had not cared enough about it to persevere
against a few repulses; and becoming soon too
busy with his play to have time for more than one
flirtation lie grew indifferent to the quarrel, or
rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly
putting an-end to what might erelong have raised
expectations m more than Mrs. Grant. She was

MANSFIELD PARK.

211

not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play,
and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a
matter which really involved her happiness, as
Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as
he did assure her, with a most persuasive smile,
that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious
thought of each other, she could only renew her
former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him
not to risk his tranquillity by too much admira¬
tion there, and then gladly take her share in any¬
thing that brought cheerfulness to the young people
in general, and that did so particularly promote
the pleasure of the two so dear to her.

“ I rather wonder Julia is not in love with
Henry, ” was her observation to Mary.

“ I dare say she is,” replied Mary, coldly. “I
imagine both sisters are.”

“Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give
him a hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushwortb.”

“ You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of
Mr. Bush worth. It may do her some good. I
often think of Mr. Rush worth’s property and
independence, and wish them in other hands;
but I never think of him. A man might rep¬
resent the county with such an estate; a man
might escape a profession and represent the
county. ”

‘ ‘ I dare say he will be in parliament soon.
When Sir Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in
for some borough; but there has been nobody to
put him in the way of doing anything yet.”

“ Sir Thomas is to achieve mighty things when
he comes home,” said Mary, after a pause. “Do

212

MANSFIELD PARK.

you remember Hawkins Browne’s ‘ Address to To¬
bacco, ’ in imitation of Pope? —

‘ Blest leaf ! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense ’ ?

I will parody them : —

Blest Knight ! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems
to depend upon Sir Thomas’s return.”

“ You will find his consequence very just and
reasonable when you see him in his family, I as-
suie you. I do not think we do so well without
him. He has a fine, dignified manner, which suits
the head of such a house, and keeps everybody in
their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher
now than when he i° at home; and nobody else can
keep Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not
fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I am
sure Julia does not, or she would not have flirted
as she did last night with Mr. Yates; and though
he and Maria are very good friends, I think she
likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.”

“ 1 wouId not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s
chance, if Henry stepped in before the articles
vwere signed.”

“ If you have sucl1 a suspicion, something must
be done; and as soon as the play is all over, we
will talk to him seriously, and make him know his
own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send
him off, though he is Henry, for a time.”

Julia did suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant
discerned it not, and though it escaped the notice

MANSFIELD PARK

213

of many of her own family likewise. She had
loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffer¬
ing which a warm temper and a high spirit were
likely to endure under the disappointment of a
dear though irrational hope, with a strong sense
of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and
she was capable only of angry consolations. The
sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms
was now become her greatest enemy: they were
alienated from each other; and Julia was not su¬
perior to the hope of some distressing end to the
attentions which were still carrying on there,
some punishment to Maria for conduct so shame¬
ful towards herself as well as towards Mr. Hush-
worth. With no material fault of temper, or
difference of opinion, to prevent their being very
good friends while their interests were the same,
the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not af¬
fection or principle enough to make them merciful
or just, to give them honor or compassion. Maria
xelt her triumph, and pursued her purpose careless
of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distin¬
guished hy Henry Crawford without trusting that
it would create jealousy, and bring a public dis¬
turbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia;
but there was no outward fellowship between
them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny
took no liberties. They were two solitary suffer¬
ers, or connected only hy Fanny’s consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the
aunt to Julia’s discomposure, and their blindness
to its true cause, must he imputed to the fulness

214

MANSFIELD PAKK.

of their own minds. They were totally preoccu¬
pied. Tom was engrossed by the concerns of his
theatre, and saw nothing that did not immedi¬
ately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatri¬
cal and his real part, between Miss Crawford’s
claims and his own conduct, between love and
consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs.
Norris was too busy in contriving and directing
the general little matters of the company, super¬
intending their various dresses with economical
expedient, for which nobody thanked her, and
saving, with delighted integrity, half-a-crown
here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have
leisure for watching the behavior or guarding
the happiness of his daughters.

V

CHAPTEB XVIII.

Everything was now in a regular train, — theatre,
actors,- actresses, and dresses were all getting
forward; but though no other great impediments
arose, Fanny found, before many days were past,
that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment to
the party themselves, and that she had not to
witness the continuance of such unanimity and
delight as had been almost too much for her at
first. Everybody began to have their vexation.
Edmund had many. Entirely against his judg¬
ment, a scene-painter arrived from town, and was
at work, much to the increase of the expenses,
and, what was worse, of the eclat, of their pro¬
ceedings; and his brother, instead of being really
guided by him as to the privacy of the represen¬
tation, was giving an invitation to every family
who came in his way. Tom himself began to
fret over the scene-painter’s slow progress, and to
feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his
part, — all his parts, — for he took every trifling
one that could be united with the Butler, and be¬
gan to be impatient to be acting; and every day
thus unemployed was tending to increase his
sense of the insignificance of all his parts to¬
gether, and make him more ready to regret that
some other play had not been chosen.

216

MANSFIELD PARK.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener,
and often the only listener at hand, came in for
the complaints and distresses of most of them.
She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought
to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disap¬
pointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom Bertram
spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that
Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that
Edmund was behindhand with his part, and
that it was misery to have anything to do with
Mr. h ush worth, who was wanting a prompter
through every speech. She knew, also, that poor
Mr. Bushworth could seldom get anybody to re¬
hearse with him: his complaint came before her
as well as the rest; and so decided to her eye was
her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so need¬
lessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between
her and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the
terror of other complaints from him. So far from
being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found
everybody requiring something they had not, and
giving occasion of discontent to the others. Every¬
body had a part either too long or too short; no¬
body would attend as they ought, nobody would
remember on which side they were to come in
nobody but the complainer would observe any
directions. J

Kanny believed herself to derive as much inno¬
cent enjoyment from the play as any of them;
Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure
to her to creep into the theatre, and attend the
rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the feelings
it excited m some speeches for Maria. Maria she

MANSFIELD PARK.

217

also thought acted well, — too well ; and after
the first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their
only audience, and sometimes as prompter, some¬
times as spectator, was often very useful. As far
as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably
the best actor of all; he had more confidence than
Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent
and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him
as a man, but she must admit him to be the best
actor, and on this point there were not many who
differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed
against his tameness and insipidity; and the day
came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her
with a black look, and said: “Do you think there
is anything so very fine in all this? For the life
and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and be¬
tween ourselves, to see such an undersized, little,
mean-looking man set up for a fine actor, is very
ridiculous in my opinion.”

From this moment there was a return of his for¬
mer jealousy, which Maria, from increasing hopes
of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and the
chances of Mr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the
knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became
much less. As to his ever making anything toler¬
able of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that
except his mother, — she, indeed, regretted that
his part was not more considerable, and deferred
coming over to Mansfield till they were forward
enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his
scenes; but the others aspired at nothing beyond
his remembering the catchword, and the first line of
his speech, and being able to follow the prompter

218

MANSFIELD PARK.

through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kind-
heartedness, was at great pains to teach him how
to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in
her power, trying to make an artificial memory for
him, and learning every word of his part herself,
but without his being much the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feel¬
ings she certainly had; but with all these, and
other claims on her time and attention, she was as
far from finding herself without employment or
utility amongst them, as without a companion in
uneasiness ; quite as far from having no demand on
her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of
her first anticipations was proved to have been un¬
founded. She was occasionally useful to all; she
was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done,
moreover, in which her help was wanted; and that
Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the
rest, was evident by the manner in which she
claimed it: “Come, Fanny,” she cried, “these
are fine times for you; but you must not be always
walking from one room to the other, and doing the
lookings on, at your ease, in this way, — I want
you here. I have been slaving myself till I can
hardly stand, to contrive Mr. II us Invert Ids cloak
without sending for any more satin,; and now I
think you may give me your help in putting it
together. There are but three seams; you may do
them in a trice. It would be lucky for me if 1 had
nothing but the executive part to do. You are
best off, I can tell you; but if nobody did more
tiian you, we should not get on very fast.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

219

Fanny took the work very quietly, without
attempting any defence; hut her kinder aunt
Bertram observed on her behalf, —

“ One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should
be delighted; it is all new to her, you know:
you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves,
and so am I still ; and as soon as I am a little
more at leisure, I mean to look in at their rehear¬
sals too. What is the play about, Fanny? You
have never told me.”

“ Oh, sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny
is not one of those who can talk and work at the
same time. It is about Lovers’ Vows.”

“1 believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram,

‘ ‘ there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow even¬
ing, and that will give you an opportunity of
seeing all the actors at once.”

“You had better stay till the curtain is hung,”
interposed Mrs. Norris; “the curtain will be
hung in a day or two, - — ■ there is very little sense
in a play without a curtain, — and I am much mis¬
taken if you do not find it draw up into very
handsome festoons.”

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting.
Fanny did not share her aunt’s composure; she
thought of the morrow a great deal, — for if the
three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Craw¬
ford would then be acting together for the first
time; the third act would bring a scene between
them which interested her most particularly, and
which .she was longing and dreading to see how
they would perform. The whole subject of it was
love, — a marriage of love was to be described by

220

MANSFIELD PARK.

the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration ;
of love he made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with i
many painful, many wondering emotions, and i
looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting. She did not i
believe they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. ;

The morrow came, the plan for the evening con- ]
tinned, and Fanny’s consideration of it did not be¬
come less agitated. She worked very diligently I
under her aunt’s directions, hut her diligence and
her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; ]
and about noon she made her escape with her work
to the East room, that she might have no concern
in another and, as she deemed it, most unneces¬
sary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Craw- '
ford was just proposing, desirous at once of having
her time to herself and of avoiding the sight of
Mr. Eushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through
the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the
Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat,
and she worked and meditated in the East room,
undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gen¬
tle tap at the door was followed by the entrance
of Miss Crawford.

“ Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My
dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have

vmade my way to you on purpose to entreat your
help.” J

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavored to show her¬
self mistress of the room by her civilities, and

looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with
concern.

MANSFIELD PARK.

221

“ Thank you, — I am quite warm, very warm.
Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have
the goodness to hear me my third act. I have
brought my hook, and if you would hut rehearse it
with me, I should be so obliged! I came here to¬
day intending to rehearse it with Edmund — by
ourselves — against the evening, but he is not in
the way ; and if he were, I do not think I could go
through it with him till I have hardened myself a
little, for really there is a speech or two — You
will be so good, won’t you? ”

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though
she could not give them in a very steady voice.

“ Have you ever happened to look at the part I
mean? ” continued Miss Crawford, opening her
book. “Here it i-s. I did not think much of it
at first; but, upon my word — There, look at
that speejth, ■ and that and that! How am I ever to
look him in the face and say such things? Could
you do it? But then he is your cousin, which
makes all the difference. You must rehearse it
with me, that I may fancy you him, and get on by
degrees. You have a look of his sometimes.”

“ Have I? I will do my best with the greatest
readiness ; but I must read the part, for I can say
very little of it.”

“None of it, I suppose. You are to have the
book, of course. Now for it. We must have two
chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the front
of the stage. There — very good school-room chairs,
not made for a theatre, I dare say ; much more
fitted for little girls to sit and kick their feet
against when they are learning a lesson. What

222

MANSFIELD PARK.

would your governess and your uncle say to see
them used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas
look in upon us just now, he would bless himself,
for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is
storming away in the dining-room. I heard him
as' I came upstairs ; and the theatre is engaged of
course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha
and Frederick. If they are not perfect, I shall be
surprised. By the by, I looked in upon them five
.minutes ago, and it happened to he exactly at one
of the times when they were trying not to embrace,
and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he
began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as
well as I could, by whispering to him, 1 We shall
have an excellent Agatha; there is something so
maternal in her manner, so completely maternal
in her voice and countenance. ’ Was not that well
done of me? He brightened up directly. How
for my soliloquy.”

She began, and Fanny joined in, with all the
modest feeling which the idea of representing Ed¬
mund was so strongly calculated to inspire, hut
with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no
very good picture of a man. With such an Anhalt,
however, Miss Crawford had courage enough ; and
they had got through half the scene, when a tap
at the door brought a pause, and the entrance of
Edmund, the next moment; suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in
each of the three on this unexpected meeting; and
as Edmund was come on the very same business
that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness
aud pleasure were likely to be more than momem

tary in them. He, too, had his book, and was
seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him,
and help him to prepare for the evening, without
knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house; and
great was the joy and animation of1 being thus
thrown together, of comparing schemes, and sym¬
pathizing in praise of Fanny’s kind offices.

She could not equal them in their warmth.
Her spirits sank under the glow of theirs, and she
felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to both,
to have any comfort in having been sought by
either. They must now rehearse together. Ed¬
mund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the
lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no
longer, — and Fanny was wanted only to prompt
and observe them. She was invested, indeed,
with the office of judge and critic, and. earnestly
desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults;
but from doing so every feeling within her shrank;
she could not, would not, dared not attempt it:
had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her
conscience must have restrained her from ventur¬
ing at disapprobation. She believed herself to
feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or
safety in particulars. To prompt them must be
enough for her; and it was sometimes more than
enough, for she could not always pay attention to
the book. In watching them she forgot herself;
and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund’s
manner, had once closed the page and turned away
exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to
very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked
and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than

224

MANSFIELD PARK.

she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the
scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add
her praise to the compliments each was giving the
other; and when again alone, and able to recall
the whole, she was inclined to believe their per¬
formance would, indeed, have such nature and
feeling in it as must insure their credit, and make
it a very suffering exhibition to herself. What¬
ever might be its effect, however, she must stand
the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts
was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs.
Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to return
for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner ;
and every one concerned was looking forward with
eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of
cheerfulness on the occasion: Tom was enjoying
such an advance towards the end, Edmund was in
spirits from the morning’s rehearsal, and little
vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All
were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon,
the gentlemen soon followed them, and, with the
exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and
Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early
hour, and, having lighted it up as well as its
unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the
arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

\ They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but
there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come.
Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which
he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law,
could not spare his wife.

“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, until mock solem-

MANSFIELD PARK.

225

nity. “ He lias been ill ever since lie did not eat
any of the pheasant to-day. He fancied it tough,
sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever
since.”

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-
attendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners
and cheerful conformity made her always valu¬
able amongst them; but now she was absolutely
necessary. They could not act, they could not
rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The
comfort of the whole evening was destroyed.
What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in
despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes
began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or
two to say, “ If Miss Price would be so good as to
read the part.” She was immediately surrounded
by supplications, — everybody asked it; even Ed¬
mund said, “Do, Fanny, if it is not very dis¬
agreeable to you.”

But Fanny still hung back. She could not
endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Craw¬
ford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she
rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be
safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all?
She had known it would irritate and distress her,
— she had known it her duty to keep away. She
was properly punished.

“You have only to read the part,” said Henry
Crawford, with renewed entreaty.

“And I do believe she can say every word of
it,” added Maria, “for she could put Mrs. Grant
right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I
am sure you know the part.”

VOL. I. — 15

226

MANSFIELD PARK.

Fanny could not say slie did not; and as they
all persevered, — as Edmund repeated his wish, and
with a look of even fond dependence on her good¬
nature, — she must yield. She would do her best.
Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the
tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the
others prepared to begin.

They did begin; and being too much engaged
in their own noise to be struck by an unusual
noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded
some way, when the door of the room was thrown
open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a face all
aghast, exclaimed, “My father is come! He is
in the hall at this moment.”

CHAPTER XIX.

How is the consternation of the party to he de¬
scribed? To the greater number it was a moment
of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house!
All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope
of imposition or mistake was harbored anywhere.
Julia’s looks were an evidence of the fact that
made it indisputable; and after the first starts and
exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a
minute; each with an altered countenance was
looking at some other, and almost each was feeling
it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed,
most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it
only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and
Mr. Rusliworth might imagine it a blessing; but
every other heart was sinking under some degree
of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, — every
other heart was suggesting, “What will become
of us? What is to he done now?” It was a
terrible pause ; and terrible to every ear were the
corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing
footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again.
Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: self¬
ishness was lost in the common cause; but at the
moment of her appearance, Erederick was listen¬
ing with looks of devotion to Agatha’s narra-

228

MANSFIELD PARK.

tive, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as
soon as she could notice this, and see that in spite
of the shock of her words, he still kept his station
and retained her sister’s hand, her wounded heart
swelled again with injury, and, looking as red as
she had been white before, she turned out of the
room, saying, “I need not be afraid of appearing
before him.”

Her going roused the rest; and at the same
moment the two brothers stepped forward, feeling
the necessity of doing something. A very few
words between them were sufficient. The case
admitted no difference of opinion; they must go
to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them
with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the
three; for the very circumstance which had driven
Julia away was to her the sweetest support.
Henry Crawford’s retaining her hand at such a
moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and im¬
portance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety.
She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious
determination, and was equal even to encounter
her father. They walked off, utterly heedless of
Mr. Hush worth’s repeated question of, “ Shall I
go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it
be right for me to go too? ” but they were no
sooner through the door than Henry Crawford
’undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and,
encouraging him by all means to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the
others with delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr.
Yates. She had been quite overlooked by her

MANSFIELD PARK.

229

cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on
Sir Thomas’s affection was much too humble to
give her any idea of classing herself with his
children, she was glad to remain behind and gain
a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm
exceeded all that was endured by the rest, by the
right of a disposition which not even innocence
could keep from suffering. She was nearly faint¬
ing; all her former habitual dread of her uncle was
returning, and with it compassion for him and for
almost every one of the party on the development
before him, — with solicitude on Edmund’s account
indescribable. She had found a seat, where in
excessive trembling she was enduring all these
fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer
under any restraint, were giving vent to their
feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an
unlooked-for, premature arrival as a most untoward
event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas
had been twice as long on his passage, or were
still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject
than Mr. Yates, from better understanding the
family, and judging more clearly of the mischief
that must ensue. The ruin of the play was to
them a certainty: they felt the total destruction of
the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.
Yates considered it only as a temporary interrup¬
tion, a disaster for the evening, and could even
suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being re¬
newed after tea, when the bustle of receiving bir
Thomas were over, and he might be at leisure to
be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed at the

230

MANSFIELD PARK.

idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of
their walking quietly home and leaving the family
to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates’s accompanying
them and spending the evening at the Parsonage,
But Mr. Yates, having never Been with those who
thought much of parental claims or family confi¬
dence, could not perceive that anything of the
kind was necessary ; and therefore, thanking them,
said he preferred remaining where he was, that
he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely, since he was come; and besides, he
did not think it would he fair by the others to
have everybody run away.

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and
to feel that if she stayed longer behind- it might
seem disrespectful, when this point was settled,
and being commissioned with the brother and
sister’s apology, saw them preparing to go, as she
quitted the room herself to perform the dreadful
duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing¬
room door; and after pausing a moment for what
she knew would not come, for a courage which the
outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she
turned the lock in desperation, and the lights of
the drawing-room and all the collected family were
before her. As she entered, her own name caught
her ear.

Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round
him and saying, “But where is Fanny? Why-
do not I see my little Fanny?” and on perceiv¬
ing her, came forward with a kindness which as¬
tonished and penetrated her, calling her his dear

MANSFIELD PARK.

231

Fanny, kissing her affectionately and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown!
Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look.
She was quite oppressed. He had never been so
kind, so very kind to her in his life. His manner
seemed changed; his voice was quick from the
agitation of. joy, and all that had been awful in
his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her
nearer the light, and looked at her again, in¬
quired particularly after her health, and then, cor¬
recting himself, observed that he need not inquire,
for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point.
A fine blush having succeeded the previous pale¬
ness of her face, he was justified in his belief of
her equal improvement in health and beauty. He
inquired next after her family, especially William ;
and his kindness altogether was such as made her
reproach herself for loving him so little, and think¬
ing his return a misfortune; and when on having
courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he
was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged,
worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every
tender feeling was increased, and she was miser¬
able in considering how much unsuspected vexation
was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party,
who at his suggestion now seated themselves
round the fire. He had the best right to be the
talker; and the delight of his sensations in being
a crain in his own house, in the centre of Ins family,
after such a separation, made him communicative
and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was
ready to give every information as to Ins voyage,

232

MANSFIELD PARK.

and answer every question of liis two sons almost
before it was put. His business in Antigua had
latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came
directly from Liverpool, having had an opportu¬
nity of making his passage thither in a private
vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all
the little particulars of his proceedings and events,
his arrivals and departures, were most promptly
delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked
with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him,
— interrupting himself more than once, however,
to remark on his good fortune in finding them all
at home, — coming unexpectedly as he did, — all
collected together exactly as he could have wished,
but dared not depend on. Mr. Rush worth was not
forgotten; a most friendly reception and warmth
of hand-shaking had already met him, and with
pointed attention he was now included in the ob¬
jects most intimately connected with Mansfield.
There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rush-
worth’s appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with
such unbroken, unalloyed enjoyment as by his
wife, who was really extremely happy to see him,
and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden
arrival as to place her nearer agitation than she
Ijad been for the last twenty years. She had been
almost fluttered for a few minutes, and still re¬
mained so sensibly animated as to put away her
work, move pug from her side, and give all her
attention and all the rest of her sofa to her hus¬
band. She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud

MANSFIELD PAEK.

233

her pleasure : her own time had been irreproach¬
ably spent during his absence; she had done a
great deal of carpet work, and made many yards of
fringe; and she would have answered as freely for
the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the
young people as for her own. It was so agreeable
to her to see him again and hear him talk, to have
her ear amused and her whole comprehension
filled by bis narratives, that she began particu¬
larly to feel how dreadfully she must have missed
him, and how impossible it would have been for
her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in
happiness to her sister. Not that she was incom¬
moded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s disapproba¬
tion when the present state of his house should be
known, for her judgment had been so blinded that
except bj the instinctive caution with which she
had whisked away Mr. Rushworth’s pink satin
cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could
hardly be said to show any sign of alarm; but she
was vexed by the manner of his return. It had
left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for
out of the room, and seeing him first, and having
to spread the happy news through the house, Sir
Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, per¬
haps, on the nerves of bis wife and children, bad
sought no confidant but the butler, and had been
following him almost instantaneously into the
drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded
of an office on which she had always depended,
whether his arrival or bis death were to be. the
thing unfolded; and was now trying to be m a

234

MANSFIELD PARK.

bustle without having anything to bustle about,
and laboring to be important where nothing was
wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir
Thomas have consented to eat, she might have
gone to the housekeeper with troublesome direc¬
tions, and insulted the footmen with in junctions
of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined
all dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea
came, — he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs.
Norris was at intervals urging something differ¬
ent; and in the most interesting moment of his
passage to England, when the alarm of a French
privateer was at the height, she burst through his
recital with the proposal of soup. “ Sure, my
dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much
better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of
soup. ”

Sir Thomas could not be pr*ovoked. “ Still the
same anxiety for everybody’s comfort, my dear
Mrs. Norris,” was iris answer. “But indeed I
would rather have nothing but tea.”

“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak
for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a lit¬
tle; he seems behindhand to-night.” She carried
this point, and Sir Thomas’s narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate
communications were exhausted, and it seemed
enough to be looking joyfully around him, now at
one, now at another of the beloved circle. But the
pause was not long: in the elation of her spirits,
Lady Bertram became talkative; and what were the
sensations of her children upon hearing her say;
“How do you think the young people have been

MANSFIELD PARK.

235

amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They
have been acting. We have been all alive with
acting.”

“ Indeed! and what have you been acting? ”

“ Oh, they ’ll tell you all about it.”

“The all will he soon told,” cried Tom, hastily
and with affected unconcern; “but it is not worth
while to bore my father with it now. You will
hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just
been trying, by way of doing something and
amusing my mother, just within the last week, to
get up a few scenes, — a mere trifle. We have had
such incessant rains almost since October began,
that we have been nearly confined to the house for
days together. I have hardly taken out a gun
since the 3d. Tolerable sport the first three
days, but there has been no attempting anything
since. The first day I went over Mansfield
Wood, and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton,
and we brought home six brace between us, and
might each have killed six times as many; but we
respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much
as you could desire. I do not think you will find
your woods by any means worse stocked than they
were. I never saw Mansfield Wood so full of
pheasants in my life as this year. I hope you will
take a day’s sport there yourself, sir, soon.”

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny’s
sick feelings subsided; but when tea was soon
afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting
up, said that he found he could not he any longer
in the house without just looking into his own dear
room, every agitation was returning. He was gone

236 *

MANSFIELD PARK.

before anything had been said to prepare him for
the change he must find there; and a pause of
alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund was
the first to speak.

“ Something must be done,” said he.

“ It is time to think of our visitors,” said Maria,
still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford’s
heart, and caring little for anything else. “ Where
did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?”

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered
their message.

“Then poor Yates is all alone,” cried Tom. “I
will go and fetch him. He will be no bad assist¬
ant when it all comes out.”

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in
time to witness the first meeting of his father and
his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal sur¬
prised to find candles burning in his room; and
on casting his eye round it, to see other symptoms
of recent habitation, and a general air of confusion
in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase
from before the billiard-room door struck him es¬
pecially; but he had scarcely more than time to
feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds
from the billiard-room to astonish him still further.
Some one was talking there in a very loud accent,
— he did not know the voice, — more than talking,
almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, re¬
joicing at that moment in having the means of
immediate communication, and opening it, found
himself on the stage of the theatre, and opposed to
a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock
him down backwards. At the very moment of

MANSFIELD PARK.

237

Fates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps
the very best start he had ever given in the whole
course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at
the other end of the room; and never had he found
greater difficulty in keeping his countenance. His
father’s looks of solemnity and amazement on this
his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual
metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wilden-
heim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates, mak¬
ing his how and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram,
was such an exhibition, such a piece of true acting
as he would not have lost upon any account. It
would be the last, — in all probability the last
scene on that stage ; but he was sure there could
not be a finer. The house would close with the
greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indul¬
gence of any images of merriment. It was neces¬
sary for him to step forward, too, and assist the
introduction; and with many awkward sensations,
he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates
with all the appearance of cordiality which was due
to his own character, but was really as far from
pleased with the necessity of the acquaintance as
with the manner of its commencement. Mr.
Yates’s family and connections were sufficiently
known to him to render his introduction as the
‘ ‘ particular friend,” another of the hundred par¬
ticular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome;
and it needed all the felicity of being again at
home, and all the forbearance it could supply, to
save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself
thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a

238 MANSFIELD PARK.

ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical non.
sense, and forced in so untoward a moment to admit
the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure
of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and
volubility in the course of the first five minutes
seemed to mark him the more at home of the two.

Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and
heartily wishing he might be always as well dis¬
posed to give them but partial expression, began to
see more clearly than he had ever done before, that
there might be some ground of offence, — that there
might be some reason for the glance his father gave
towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and
that when he inquired with mild gravity after the
fate of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding be¬
yond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes
were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on
each side; and Sir Thomas, having exerted him¬
self so far as to speak a few words of calm appro¬
bation, in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as
to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gen¬
tlemen returned to the drawing-room together, Sir
Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not
lost on all.

“I come from your theatre,” said he, com¬
posedly, as he sat down; “I found myself in it
rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room
-v- but in every respect, indeed, it took me by sur¬
prise, as I had not the smallest suspicion of your
acting having assumed so serious a character. It
appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge
by candle-light, and does my friend Christopher
Jackson credit.” And then he would have changed

MANSFIELD PARK.

239

the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over do¬
mestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates,
without discernment to catch Sir Thomas’s mean¬
ing, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough
to allow him to lead the discourse while he min¬
gled among the others with the least obtrusiveness
himself, would keep him on the topic of the theatre,
would torment him with questions and remarks
relative to it, and finally would make him hear the
whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford.
Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much
to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill
opinion of Mr. Yates’s habits of thinking, from
the beginning to the end of the story; and when it
was over, could give him no other assurance of
sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

“This was, in fact, the origin of our acting,”
said Tom, after a moment’s thought. “ My friend
Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford, and
it spread — as those things always spread, you
know, sir — the faster, probably, from your having
so often encouraged the sort of thing in us for¬
merly. It was like treading old ground again.”

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as
soon as possible, and immediately gave Sir
Thomas an account of what they had done and
were doing; told him of the gradual increase of
their views, the happy conclusion of their first dii-
ficulties, and present promising state of affairs ;
relating everything with so blind an interest as
made him not only totally unconscious of the
uneasy movements of many of his friends as
they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget,

240

MANSFIELD PARK.

the hem! of unquietness, hut prevented him even
from seeing the expression of the face on which his
own eyes were fixed, — from seeing Sir Thomas’s
dark brow contract as he looked with inquiring
earnestness at his daughters and Edmund, dwell¬
ing particularly on the latter, and speaking a
language, a remonstrance, a reproof which he felt
at his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by
Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her
aunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened from notice
herself, saw all that was passing before her. Such
a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she
could never have expected to witness; and to feel
that it was in any degree deserved was an aggra¬
vation indeed. Sir Thomas’s look implied, “On
your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have
you been about?” She knelt in spirit to her
uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, “Oh, not
to him! Look so to all the others, but not to
him ! ”

Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the
truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a
rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We
were going through the three first acts, and not
unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is
now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone
home, that nothing more can be done to-night;
but if you will give us the honor of your company
to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the
result. We bespeak your indulgence, you under¬
stand, as young performers; we bespeak your
indulgence.”

“My indulgence shall be given, sir,” replied

MANSFIELD PARK.

241

Sir Thomas, gravely, “but without any other re¬
hearsal.” And with a relenting smile he added,
“I come home to he happy and indulgent.”
Then turning away towards any or all of the rest,
he tranquilly said: “Mr. and Miss Crawford were
mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do
you find them agreeable acquaintance?”

Tom was the only oue at all ready with an an¬
swer ; but he, being entirely without particular re¬
gard for either, without jealousy either in love
or acting, could speak very handsomely of both.
“Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant, gentleman¬
like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl.”

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. “ I
do not say he is not gentlemanlike, considering;
but you should tell your father he is not above
five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well¬
looking man.”

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and
looked with some surprise at the speaker.

“If I must say what I think,” continued Mr.
Rushworth, “in my opinion it is very disagree¬
able to be always rehearsing. It is having too
much of a good thing. I am not so fond of act¬
ing as I was at first. I think we are a great deal
better employed, sitting comfortably here among
ourselves, and doing nothing.”

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with
an approving smile: “I am happy to find our sen¬
timents on this subject so much the same. It
gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be
cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many scm-
vol. x. — 15

242

MANSFIELD PARK.

pies which my children do not feel, is perfectly
natural; and equally so that my value for domes¬
tic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy
pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at
your time of life to feel all this is a most favor¬
able circumstance for yourself and for everybody
connected with you; and I am sensible of the im¬
portance of having an ally of such weight.”

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Bush-
worth’s opinion in better words than he could
find himself. He was aware that he must not
expect a genius in Mr. Bushworth ; but as a
well-judging, steady young man, with better no¬
tions than his elocution would do justice to, he
intended to value him very highly. It was im¬
possible for many of the others not to smile.
Mr. Bushworth hardly knew what to do with so
much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt,
most exceedingly pleesed with Sir Thomas’s good
opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his
best towards preserving that good opinion a little
longer.

\

CHAPTER XX.

Edmund’s first object the next morning was to see
his father alone, and give him a fair statement of
the whole acting scheme, defending his own share
in it as far only as he could then in a soberer mo¬
ment feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledg¬
ing, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession
had been attended with such partial good as to
make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was
anxious while vindicating himself to say nothing
unkind of the others; but there was only one
amongst them whose conduct he could mention
without some necessity of defence or palliation.
“We have all been more or less to blame,” said
he, “every one of us excepting Fanny. Fanny is
the only one who has judged rightly throughout,
who has been consistent. Her feelings have been
steadily against it from first to last. She never
ceased to think of what was due to you. You will
find Fanny everything you could wish.”

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a
scheme among such a party and at such a time as
strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he
felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and
having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try
to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how
much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he

244

MANSFIELD PAKK.

could, after the house had been cleared of every
object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to
its proper state. He did not enter into an} re
monstrance with his other children : he was more
willing to believe they felt their error, than to run
the risk of investigation. The reproof of an im¬
mediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of
every preparation would be sufficient.

There was one person, howrever, in the house whom
he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely
through his conduct. He could not help merely
giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped
that her advice might have been interposed to
prevent what her judgment must certainly have
disapproved. The young people had been very
inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to
have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young, and, excepting Edmund, he
believed, of unsteady characters ; and with greater
surprise, therefore, he must regard her acquies¬
cence in their wrong measures, her countenance of
their unsafe amusements, than that such measures
and such amusements should have been suggested.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded, and as nearly
being silenced as ever she had been in her life;
for she was ashamed to confess having never seen
any of the impropriety which was so glaring to
Sk Thomas, and would not have admitted that her
influence was insufficient, — that she might have
talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out
of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the
current of Sir Thomas’s ideas into a happier chan¬
nel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own

MANSFIELD PARK.

245

praise as to general attention to the interest and
comfort of his family, much exertion and many
sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks
and sudden removals from her own fireside, and
many excellent hints of distrust and economy to
Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby
a most considerable saving had always arisen,
and more than one bad servant been detected.
But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her
greatest support and glory was in having formed
the connection with the Bushworths. There she
was impregnable. She took to herself all the
credit of bringing Mr. Bushworth’s admiration of
Maria to any effect. “If I had not been active,”
said she, “and made a point of being introduced
to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to
pay the first visit, I am as certain as I sit here
that nothing would have come of it, — for Mr.
Bushworth is the sort of amiable modest young
man who wants a great deal of encouragement, and
there were girls enough on the catch for him if we
had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I
was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade
my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You
know the distance to Sotherton; it wjis in the
middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable,

but I did persuade her.”

“I know how great, how justly great your in¬
fluence is with Lady Bertram and her children,
and am the more concerned that it should not have

been — ”

“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state
of the roads that day ! I thought we should never

246

MANSFIELD PARK.

have got through them, though we had the four
horses of course; and poor old coachman would
attend us, out of his great love and kindness,
though he was hardly able to sit the box on
account of the rheumatism which I had been doc¬
toring him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him
at last ; but he was very bad all the winter, — and
this was such a day, I could not help going to him
up in his room before we set off to advise him not
to venture: he was putting on his wig; so I said,
‘Coachman, you had much better not go, your Lady
and I shall be very safe; you know how steady
Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders
so often now that I am sure there is no fear. ’ But,
however, I soon found it would not do: he was
bent upon going, and as I hate to be worrying
and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite
ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into
the rough lanes about Stoke, where what with
frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse
than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an
agony about him. And then the poor horses too!
To see them straining away! You know how I
always feel for the horses. And when we got to
the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, wdiat do you think I
did? You will laugh at me, — but I got out and
walked up. I did, indeed. It might not be saving
thejji much, but it was something, and I could not
bear to sit at my ease, and be dragged up at the
expense of those noble animals. I caught a dread¬
ful cold, but that I did not regard. My object
was accomplished in the visit.”

“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance

MANSFIELD PARK.

247

worth any trouble that might be taken to establish
it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Tush-
worth’s manners, but I was pleased last night
with what appeared to be his opinion on one sub¬
ject, — his decided preference of a quiet family-
party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He
seemed to feel exactly as one could wish.”

“ Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him
the better you will like him. He is not a shining
character, but he has a thousand good qualities;
and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am
quite laughed at about it, for everybody considers
it as my doing. ‘Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,’
said Mrs. Grant the other day, ‘ if Mr. Kushworth
were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir
Thomas in greater respect.’ ”

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her
evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged
to rest satisfied with the conviction that where
the present pleasure of those she loved was at
stake her kindness did sometimes overpower her
judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation
with any of them occupied but a small part of it.
He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted con¬
cerns of his Mansfield life, to see his steward and
his bailiff, — to examine and compute, — - and in
the intervals of business, to walk into his stables
and his gardens and nearest plantations; but
active and methodical, he had not only done all
this before he resumed his seat as master of the
house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to
work in pulling down what had been so lately put

248

MANSFIELD PARK.

up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-
painter his dismissal long enough to justify the
pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off
as Northampton. The scene-painter was gone,
having spoiled only the floor of one room, ruined
all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of
the under-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir
Thomas was in hopes that another day or two
would suffice to wipe away every outward memento
of what had been, even to the destruction of every
unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the house, for
he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir
Thomas’s intentions, though as far as ever from
understanding their source. He and his friend
had been out with their guns the chief of the
morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of
explaining, with proper apologies for his father’s
particularity, what was to be expected. Mr.
Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed.
To be a second time disappointed in the same way
was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his
indignation was such that had it not been for
delicacy towards his friend and his friend’s young¬
est sister, he believed he should certainly attack
the Baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and
argue him into a little more rationality. He be¬
lieved this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield
Wood, and all the way home; but there was a
something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round
the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it
wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the
folly of it without opposition. He had known

MANSFIELD PARK.

249

many disagreeable fathers before, and often been
struck with the inconveniences they occasioned;
but never in the whole course of his life, had he
seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral, so
infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was
not a man to be endured but for his children’s
sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daugh¬
ter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a
few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness,
though almost every mind was ruffled; and the
music which Sir Thomas called for from his daugh¬
ters helped to conceal the want of real harmony.
Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of
the utmost consequence to her that Crawford
should now lose no time in declaring himself, and
she was disturbed that even a day should be gone
by without seeming to advance that point. She
had been expecting to see him the whole morning,
— and all the evening, too, was still expecting
him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the
great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly
hoped for such an immediate eclttivcissBincnt as
might save him the trouble of ever coming back
again. But they had seen no one from the Parson¬
age — not a creature, — and had heard no tidings
beyond a friendly note of congratulation and in¬
quiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was
the first day, for many, many weeks, in which the
families had been wholly divided. Four-and-
twenty hours had never passed before, since
August began, without bringing them together
in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious nay J

250

MANSFIELD PARK.

and the morrow, though differing m the sort of
evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments
of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of
acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again m
the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was
anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas; and at
rather an early hour they were ushered into, the
breakfast-room, where were most of the family.
Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with
delight and agitation the introduction of the man
she loved to her father. Her sensations were in¬
definable, and so were they a few minutes after¬
wards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a
chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in
an under voice, whether there were any plan for
resuming the play after the present happy inter¬
ruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas),
because in that case he should make a point of
returning to Mansfield at any time required by the
party: he was going away immediately, being to
meet his uncle at Bath without delay ; but if there
were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows,
he should hold himself positively engaged, lie
should break through every other claim, he should
absolutely condition with his uncle for attending
them whenever he might be wanted. The play
should not be lost by his absence,
x “From Bath, Horfollt, London, York, — wher¬
ever I may be,” said he, “I will attend you from
any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”

It was well at that moment that Torn had to
speak, and not his sister. He could immediately
say, with easy fluency, “ I am sorry you are going;

MANSFIELD PAEK.

251

but as to our play, that is all over, entirely at an
end,” looking significantly at his father. “The
painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will
remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how
that would be from the first. It is early for Bath.
You will find nobody there.”

“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”

“ When do you think of going? ”

“ I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.”

“ Whose stables do you use at Bath? ” was the
next question; and while this branch of the sub¬
ject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to en¬
counter her share of it with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what
he had already said, with only a softened air and
stronger expressions of regret. But what availed
his expressions or his air? He was going, — and
if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to
stay away; for, excepting what might be due to
his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his inde¬
pendence. The hand which had so pressed hers to
his heart! — the hand and the heart were alike mo¬
tionless and passive now! Her spirit supported
her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She
had not long to endure what arose from listening
to language which his actions contradicted, or to
bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint
of society ; for general civilities soon called his no¬
tice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then be¬
came openly acknowledged, was a very short one.
He was gone, — he had touched her hand for the

252

MANSFIELD PARK.

last time, he had made his parting bow, and she
might seek directly all that solitude could do for
her. Henry Crawford was gone, — gone from the
house, and within two hours afterwards from the
parish, — and so ended all the hopes his selfish
vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His pres¬
ence was beginning to be odious to her; and if
Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
dispense with any other revenge. She did not
want exposure to be added to desertion. Henry
Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the in¬
telligence. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a
blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with
regret; and his merits honored with due gradation
of feeling, from the sincerity of Edmund’s too par¬
tial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speak¬
ing entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look
about her, and wonder that his falling in love with
Julia had come to nothing; and could almost fear
that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it:
but with so many to care for, how was it possible
for even her activity to keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone
likewise. In his departure Sir Thomas felt the
chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family,
■the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates
must have been irksome; but of him, trifling and
confident, idle and expensive, it was every way
vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the
friend of Tom and tire admirer of Julia he became
offensive. Sir Thomas had been <piite indifferent

MANSFIELD PARK.

253

to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying; but bis good
wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey,
as he walked with him to the hall door, were given
with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had stayed to
see the destruction of every theatrical preparation
at Mansfield, the removal of everything appertain¬
ing to the play : he left the house in all the sober¬
ness of its general character, and Sir Thomas hoped,
in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst ob¬
ject connected with the scheme, and the last that
must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from
his sight that might have distressed him. The
curtain over which she had presided with such
talent and such success went off with her to her
cottage, where she happened to be particularly in
want of green baize.

CHAPTER XXI.

Sib Thomas’s return made a striking change in
the ways of the family, independent of Lovers’
Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society
sent away, and the spirits of many others sad¬
dened, it was all sameness and gloom, compared
with the past, — a sombre family-party rarely en¬
livened. There was little intercourse with the
Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from inti¬
macies in general, was particularly disinclined at
this time for any engagements but in one quarter.
The Rushworths were the only addition to his own
domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his
father’s feelings, nor could he regret anything but
the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,” he ob¬
served to Eanny, “have a claim. They seem to
belong to us, — they seem to be part of ourselves.
I could wish my father were more sensible of their
very great attention to my mother and sisters while
he was away. I am afraid they may feel them¬
selves neglected; but the truth is, that my father
hardly knows them. They had not been here a
twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew
them better, he would value their society as it de¬
serves, for they are, in fact, exactly the sort of

MANSFIELD PARK.

255

people he would like. We are sometimes a little
in want of animation among ourselves : my sisters
seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his
ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and
make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment
even to my father. ’ ’

“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my
opinion, my uncle would not like any addition.
I think he values the very quietness you speak of,
and that the repose of his own family circle is all
he wants. And it does not appear to me that we
are more serious than we used to be, — I mean
before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can
recollect, it was always much the same. There
was never much laughing in his presence; or if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than
such an absence has a tendency to produce at first.
There must be a sort of shyness ; but I cannot rec¬
ollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town. No young
people’s are, I suppose, when those they look up
to are at home.”

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his
reply, after a short consideration. “ I believe our
evenings are rather returned to what they were,
than assuming a new character. The novelty was
in their being lively. Yet how strong the im¬
pression that only a few weeks will give! I
have been feeling as if we had never lived so
before.”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,”
said Fanny. “ The evenings do not appear long
to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West

256

MANSFIELD PARK.

Indies. I could listen to him for an hour to¬
gether. It entertains me more than many other
things have done, — but then I am unlike other
people, I dare say.”

‘ ‘ Why should you dare say that? ” smiling. Do
you want to be told that you are only unlike other
people in being more wise and discreet? But
when did you or anybody ever get a compliment
from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want
to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear com¬
pliments enough; and though they may he chiefly
on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in
time.”

Such language was so new to Fanny that it
quite embarrassed her.

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny,

_ and that is the long and the short of the matter.

Anybody but myself would have made something
more of it, and anybody but you would resent that
you had not been thought very pretty before ; but
the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you
till now, and now he does. Your complexion
is so improved! and you have gained so much
countenance! and your figure — nay, Fanny, do
not turn away about it, — it is but an uncle. If
you cannot bear an uncle’s admiration, what is to
become of you? You must really begin to harden
yourself to the idea of being worth looking at.
You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty
woman.”

“Oh, don’t talk so, don’t talk so! ” cried Fanny,

MANSFIELD PARK.

257

distressed by more feelings than he was aware
of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had
done with the subject, and only added more
seriously, —

“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you
in every respect; and I only wish you would talk
to him more. You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle.”

“But I do talk to him more than I used. I
am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about
the slave-trade last night?”

“I did, and was in hopes the question would
be followed up by others. It would have pleased
your uncle to be inquired of further.”

“And I longed to do it, -—but there was such
a dead silence ! And while my cousins were sit¬
ting by without speaking a word or seeming at
all interested in the subject, I did not like — I
thought it would appear as if I wanted to set my¬
self off at their expense, by showing a curiosity
and pleasure in his information which he must
wish his own daughters to feel.”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she
said of you the other day, — that you seemed al¬
most as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect. We were talking of you at the
Parsonage, and those were her words. She has
great discernment. I know nobody who distin¬
guishes characters better. For so young a woman,
it is remarkable! She certainly understands you
better than you are understood by the greater part
of those who have known you so long; and with
regard to some others, I can perceive, from occa-
vol. i. — 17

258

MANSFIELD PARK.

sioixal lively hints, the unguarded expressions of
the moment, that she could define many as accu¬
rately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what
she thinks of my father! She must admire him
as a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike,
dignified, consistent manners; hut perhaps, hav¬
ing seen him so seldom, his reserve may he a little
repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel
sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness, and she has talents to value his
powers. I wish they met more frequently! I
hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on
his side.”

“ She must know herself too secure of the re¬
gard of all the rest of you,” said Fanny, with half
a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And
Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with
his family is so very natural that she can argue
nothing from that. After a little while I dare
say we shall he meeting again in the same sort
of way, allowing for the difference of the time of
year.”

“ This is the first October that she has passed
in the country since her infancy. I do not call
Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and No¬
vember is a still more serious month, and I can
see that Mrs. G-rant is very anxious for her not
finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was-
safer to say nothing,, and leave untouched all Miss
Crawford’s, resources, — her accomplishments, her
spirits, her importance, her friends, — lest it should
betray her into* any observations seemingly un-

MANSFIELD PARK.

259

handsome. Miss Crawford’s kind opinion of her¬
self deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and
she began to talk of something else.

“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sother-
ton, and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be
quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle
inay continue to like Mr. Bush worth.”

“ That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him
less after to-morrow’s visit, for we shall be five
hours in his company. I should dread the stupid¬
ity of the day, if there were not a much greater
evil to follow, — the impression it must leave on
Sir Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive
himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give
something that Kush worth and Maria had never
met.”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was
impending over Sir Thomas. Hot all his good¬
will for Mr. Busliworth, not all Mr. Bush worth’s
deference for him, could prevent him from soon
discerning some part of the truth, — that Mr.
Bushworth was an inferior young man, as igno¬
rant in business as in books, with opinions in
general unfixed, and without seaming much aware
of it himself.

He had expected a Very different son-in-law;
and beginning to feel grave on Maria’s account,
tried to understand her feelings. Little observa¬
tion there was necessary to tell him that indiffer¬
ence was the most favorable- state they could be in.
Her behavior to Mr: Eushworth was careless and
cold. She could not,, did not like him'. Sir
Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her. Ad

‘^60

MANSFIELD PARK.

vantageous as would be the alliance, and ong
standing and public as was the engagement, her
happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rush-
worth had, perhaps, been accepted on too short an
acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she
was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed
her; told her his fears, inquired into her wishes,
entreated her to be open and sincere, and assuied
her that every inconvenience should be braved,
and the connection entirely given up, if she felt
herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would
act for her and release her. Maria had a moment’s
struggle as she listened, and only a moment’s:
when her father ceased, she was able to give her
answer immediately, decidedly, and with no ap¬
parent agitation. She thanked him for his great
attention, his paternal kindness; hut he was quite
mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire
of breaking through Her engagement, or was sen¬
sible of any change of opinion or inclination since
her forming it. She had the highest esteem for
Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and
could not have a doubt of her happiness with
him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satis¬
fied, perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as his
judgment might have dictated to others. It was
an alliance which he could not have relinquished
without pain; and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rush-
worth was young enough to improve; Mr. Rush-
worth must and would improve in good society;
and if Maria could now speak so securely of her

MANSFIELD PARK.

261

happiness with him, speaking certainly without
the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to
-• he believed. Her feelings, probably, were not
acute; he had never supposed them to be so: but
her comforts might not be less on that account;
and if she could dispense with seeing her husband
a leading, shining character, there would certainly
be everything else in her favor. A well-disposed
young woman who did not marry for love was in
general but the more attached to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must
naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and
would in all probability be a continual supply of
the most amiable and innocent enjoyments. Such
and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, —
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,
the wonder, the reflections, the reproach, that must
attend it; happy to secure a marriage which would
bring him such an addition of respectability and in¬
fluence, and very happy to think anything of his
daughter’s disposition that was most favorable for
the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as
to him. She was in a state of mind to be glad
that she had secured her fate beyond recall, that
she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton, — that
she was safe from the possibility of giving Craw¬
ford the triumph of governing her actions and de¬
stroying her prospects ; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mi.
Rushworth in future, that her father might not be

again suspecting her. _

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within

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the first three or four days after Henry Crawford’s
leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at all
tranquillized, before she had given up every ho23e
of him, or absolutely resolved on enduring his
rival, her answer might have been different; but
after another three or four days, when there was no
return, no letter, no message, — no symptom of a
softened heart, — no hope of advantage from sepa¬
ration, her mind became cool enough to seek all
the comfort that pride and self-revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness,
but he should not know that he had done it; he
should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her
prosperity too. He should not have to think of
her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for
him, rejecting Sot her ton and London, indepen¬
dence and splendor, for his sake. Independence
was more needful than ever; the want of it at
Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and
less able to endure the restraint which her father
imposed. The liberty which his absence had given
was now become absolutely, necessary. She must
escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,
and find consolation in fortune and consequence,
bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit. Her
mind was quite determined, and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much
preparation, would have been an evil, and Mr.
Hush worth could hardly be more impatient for the
marriage than herself. In all the important prep¬
arations of the mind she was complete; being pre¬
pared for matrimony by a hatred of home, restraint,
and tranquillity, by the misery of disappointed

MANSFIELD PARK.

263

affection, and contempt of the man she was to
marry. The rest might wait. The preparations
of new carriages and furniture might wait for Lon¬
don and spring, when her own taste could have
fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect,
it soon appeared that a very few weeks would he
sufficient for such arrangements as must precede
the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and
make way for the fortunate young woman whom
her dear son had selected; and very early in No¬
vember removed herself, her maid, her footman,
and her chariot, with true dowager propriety, to
Bath, — there to parade over the wonders of Sother-
ton in her evening parties, enjoying them as
thoroughly, perhaps, in the animation of a card-
table as she had ever done on the spot, — and be¬
fore the middle of the same month the ceremony
had taken place which gave Sotherton another
in istrGSS .

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was
elegantly dressed; the two bridemaids were duly
inferior; her father gave her away; her mother
stood with salts in her hand, expecting to he agi¬
tated; her aunt tried to cry; and the service
was impressively read by Dr. Grant Nothing
could he objected to, Avhen it came under the dis¬
cussion of the neighborhood, except that the car-
riao-e which conveyed the bride and bridegroom
and Julia from the church door to Sotherton was
the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used
for a twelvemonth before. In everything else the

264

MANSFIELD PARK.

etiquette of the clay might stand the strictest
investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas
felt as an anxious father must feel, and was indeed
experiencing much of the agitation which his wife
had been apprehensive of for herself, hut had fortu¬
nately escaped. Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist
in the duties of the day by spending it at the
Park to support her sister’s spirits, and drinking
the health of Mr. and Mrs. Push worth in a super¬
numerary glass or two, was all joyous delight;
for she had made the match, — she had done every¬
thing, — and no one would have supposed, from her
confident triumph, that she had ever heard of con¬
jugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
smallest insight into the disposition of the niece
who had been brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed,
after a few days, to Brighton, and take a house
there for some weeks. Every public place was new
to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter
as in summer. When the novelty of amusement
there was over, it would be time for the wider
range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since
rivalry between the sisters had ceased, they had
been gradually recovering much of their former
good understanding, and were at least sufficiently
friends to make each of them exceedingly glad to
be with the other at such a time. Some other com¬
panion than Mr. Eushworth was of the first conse¬
quence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager
for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she

MANSFIELD PARK.

265

might not have struggled through so much to ob¬
tain them, and could better bear a subordinate
situation.

Their departure made another material change at
Mansfield, a chasm which required some time to
fill up. The family circle became greatly con¬
tracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly
added little to its gayety, they could not but be
missed. Even their mother missed them; and
how much more their tender-hearted cousin, who
wandered about the house, and thought of them
and felt for them with a degree of affectionate
regret which they had never done much to
deserve !

CHAPTER XXII.

Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure of
her cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only
young woman in the drawing-room, the only occu¬
pier of that interesting division of a family in
which she had hitherto held so humble a third, it
was impossible for her not to be more looked at,
more thought of and attended to, than she had ever
been before; and “Where is Fanny?” became
no uncommon question, even without her being
wanted for any one’s convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at
the Parsonage too. In that house, which she had
hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris’s
death, she became a welcome, an invited guest;
and in the gloom and dirt of a November day, most
acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,
beginning by chance, were continued by solicita¬
tion. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change
for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit, per¬
suade herself that she was doing the kindest thing
by Fanny, and giving her the most important
opportunities of improvement in pressing her
frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on
some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by
a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and being

MANSFIELD PARK.

267

descried from one of tire windows endeavoring to
find shelter under the branches and lingering
leaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was
forced, though not without some modest reluctance
on her part, to come in. A civil servant she had
withstood; hut when Dr. Grant himself went out
with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done
but to be very much ashamed and to get into the
house as fast as possible ; and to poor Miss Craw¬
ford, who had just been contemplating the dismal
rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing
over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that
morning, and of every chance of seeing a single
creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-
four hours, the sound of a little bustle at the front
door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping with
wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value
of an event on a wet day in the country was most
forcibly brought before her. She was all alive
again directly, and among the most active in being
useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than
she would at first allow, and providing her with
dry clothes; and Fanny, after being obliged to
submit to all this attention, and to being assisted
and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also
obliged, on returning downstairs, to be fixed m
their drawing-room for an hour while the rain con¬
tinued, the blessing of something fresh to see and
think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and
might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing

and dinner. ,

The two sisters were so kind to her and so

pleasant that Fanny might have enjoyed her visi

268

MANSFIELD PARK.

could she have believed herself not in the way,
and could she have foreseen that the weather
would certainly clear at the end of the hour, and
save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant’s
carriage and horses out to take her home, with
which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any
alarm that her absence in such weather might
occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that
score ; for as her being out was known only to her
two aunts, she was perfectly aware that none
would be felt, and that in whatever cottage Aunt
Norris might choose to establish her during the
rain, her being in such cottage would be indubi¬
table to Aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Danny,
observing a harp in the room, asked some ques¬
tions about it which soon led to an acknowledg¬
ment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a
confession, which could hardly be believed, of her
having never yet heard it since its being in Mans¬
field. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple
and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever
been at the Parsonage since the instrument’s
arrival, there had been no reason that she should;
but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early ex¬
pressed wish on the subject, was concerned at her
own neglect; and “ Shall I play to you now?”
and “ What will you have?” were questions imme¬
diately following with the readiest good-humor.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new
listener, and a listener who seemed so much
obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and
who showed herself not wanting in taste. She

MANSFIELD PARK.

269

played till Fanny’s eyes, straying to the window
on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke what
she felt must he done.

‘ ‘ Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Craw¬
ford, “and we shall see how it will be. Do not
run away the first moment of its holding up.
Those clouds look alarming.”

“But they are passed over,” said Fanny. “1
have been watching them. This weather is all
from the south.”

“ South or north, I know a black cloud when I
see it; and you must not set forward while it is so
threatening. And besides, I want to play some¬
thing more to you, —a very pretty piece, and
your cousin Edmund’s prime favorite. You must
stay and hear your cousin’s favorite.”

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had
not waited for that sentence to be thinking of
Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in
that room again and again, perhaps in the very
spot where she sat now, listening with constant
delight to the favorite air, played, as it appeared
to her, with superior tone and expression; and
though pleased with it herself, and glad to like
whatever was liked by him, she was more sin¬
cerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of it
than she had been before; and on this being e\ i-
dent, she was so kindly asked to call again, to
take them in her walk whenever she could, to
come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it
necessary to be done if no objection arose at

home.

270

MANSFIELD PARK.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy
which took place between them within the first
fortnight alter the Miss Bertrams’ going away, —
an intimacy resulting principally from Miss Craw¬
ford’s desire of something new, and which had
little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to
her every two or three days : it seemed a kind of
fascination; she could not be easy without going,
and yet it was without loving her, without ever
thinking like her, without any sense of obligation
for being sought after now when nobody else was
to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure from
her conversation than occasional amusement, and
that often at the expense of her judgment, when it
was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects
which she wished to be respected. She went, how¬
ever, and they sauntered about together many a
half hour in Mrs. Grant’s shrubbery, the weather
being unusually mild for the time of year; and
venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the
benches now comparatively unsheltered, remain¬
ing there perhaps till, in the midst of some tender
ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of so pro¬
tracted an autumn, they were forced by the sudden
"swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few
yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk
for warmth.

“ This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny,
looking around her as they were thus sitting to¬
gether one day. “ Every time I come into this
shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and
beauty. Three years ago this was nothing but a
rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,

MANSFIELD PARK.

271

never thought of as anything, or capable of becom¬
ing anything; anrl now it is converted into a walk,
and it would be difficult to say whether most valu¬
able as a convenience or an ornament; and, per¬
haps, in another three years we may be forgetting,
almost forgetting what it was before. How
wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of
time, and the changes of the human mind! ” And
following the latter train of thought, she soon
afterwards added: “If anyone faculty of our na¬
ture may be called more wonderful than the rest,
I do think it is memory. There seems something
more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in
any other of our intelligences. The memory is
sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient;
at others, so bewildered and so weak ; and at others
again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to
be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of
recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly
past finding out.”

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had
nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought
back her own mind to what she thought must
interest.

“It may seem impertinent in me to praise, but
I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shown in
all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in the
plan of the walk, — not too much attempted !

“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford, carelessly, “it
does very well for a place of this sort. One does
not think of extent here; and between ourselves,
till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a

272

MANSFIELD PARK.

country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or any¬
thing of the kind.”

“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!”
said Fanny, in reply. “ My uncle’s gardener al¬
ways says the soil here is better than his own,
and so it appears from the growth of the laurels
and evergreens in general. The evergreen ! How
beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the ever¬
green! When one thinks of it, how astonishing a
variety of nature! In some countries we know
the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety; but that
does not make it less amazing that the same soil
and the same sun should nurture plants differing
in the first rule and law of their existence. You
will think me rhapsodizing; but when I am out of
doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors, I
am very apt to get into this sort of wondering
strain. One cannot fix one’s eyes on the common¬
est natural production without finding food for a
rambling fancy.”

“ To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I
am something like the famous Doge at the court of
Louis XI Y., and may declare that I see no wonder
in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it.
Ijf anybody had told me a year ago that this place
would he my home, that I should be spending
month after month here, as I have done, I cer¬
tainly should not have believed them. I have
now been here nearly five months; and moreover,
the quietest five months I ever passed.”

“Too quiet for you, I believe.”

“I should have thought so theoretically my¬
self; but,” and her eyes brightened as she spoke,

MANSFIELD PARK.

273

“take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
summer. But then,” with a more thoughtful air
and lowered voice, “there is no saying what it may
lead to.”

Fanny’s heart heat quick, and she felt quite
unequal to surmising or soliciting anything more.
Miss Crawford, however, with renewed animation,
soon went on : —

“I am conscious of being far better reconciled
to a country residence than I had ever expected
to he. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend
half the year in the country, under certain circum¬
stances, — very pleasant. An elegant, moderate¬
sized house in the centre of family connections;
continual engagements among them; commanding
the first society in the neighborhood; looked up
to, perhaps, as leading it even more, than those
of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful
round of such amusements to nothing worse than
a tete-a-tete with the person one feels most agree¬
able in the world. There is nothing frightful
in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One
need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such
a home as that.”

“Envy Mrs. Rushworth!” was all that Fanny
attempted to say.

“Come, come, it would be very unhandsome m
us to he severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look for¬
ward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant,
happy hours. I expect we shall he all very much
at Sotherton another year. Such a match as Miss
Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the
first pleasures of Mr. Rushwbrth’s wife must be
VOL. x. — 18

274

MANSFIELD PARK.

to fill her house, and give the best balls in the
country.”

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed
into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at
the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah!
here he is.” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however,
hut Edmund, who then appeared walking towards
them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr.
Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone,
that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is
something in the sound of Mr. Edmund Bertram
so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that
I detest it.”

“How differently we feel! ” cried Fanny. “To
me the sound of Mr. Bertram is so cold and
nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
character! « It just stands for a gentleman, and
that ’s all. But there is nobleness in the name
of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and re¬
nown, — of kings, princes, and knights, — and
seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm
affections.”

“I grant you the name is good in itself, and
Lord Edmund or Sir Edmund sounds delightfully;
but. sink it under the chill, the annihilation of a
Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John
or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and disap¬
point them of half their lecture upon sitting down
out of doors at this time of year, by being up be¬
fore they can begin?”

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It
was the first time of his seeing them together
since the beginning of that better acquaintance

MANSFIELD PARK.

275

vhich lie had been hearing of with great satis¬
faction. A friendship between two so very dear
to him was exactly what he could have wished;
and to the credit of the lover’s understanding be
it stated, that he did not by any means consider
Fanny as the only or even as the greater gainer
by such a friendship.

“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do not
you scold us for our imprudence? What do you
think we have been sitting down for but to be
talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated
never to do so again?”

“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund,
“if either of you had been sitting down alone;
but while you do wrong together, I can overlook
a great deal.”

“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried
Mrs. Grant; “for when I went up for my shawl,
I saw them from the staircase window, and then
they were walking.”

“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so
mild that your sitting down for a few minutes
can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather
must not always be judged by the calendar. We
may sometimes take greater liberties in November

than in May.”

“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, ‘ you
are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling
kind friends I ever met with! There is no gn ing
you a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know
how much we have been suffering, nor what chills
we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Ber¬
tram one of the worst subjects to work on in any

276

MANSFIELD PARK.

little manoeuvre against common sense that a
woman could be plagued with. I had very little
hope of him from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant,
my sister, my own sister, — I think I had a right
to alarm you a little.”

“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary.
You have not the smallest chance of moving me.
I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different
quarter; and if I could have altered the weather,
you would have had a good sharp east wind blow¬
ing on you the whole time, — for here are some of
my plants which Robert will leave out because the
ni glits are so mild, and I know the end of it
will be that we shall have a sudden change of
weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking
everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall
lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just
been telling me that the turkey, which I particu¬
larly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because
I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it
on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, wall not
keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like
grievances, and make me think the weather most
unseasonably close.”

■^The sweets of housekeeping in a country vil¬
lage! ” said Miss Crawford, archly. “ Commend
me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.”

“ My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the
deanery of Westminster or St. Paul’s, and I should
be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you
could be. But we have no such people in Mans¬
field. What would you have me do?”

“ you can do nothing but what you do ah

MANSFIELD PARK.

277

ready, — be plagued very often, and never lose your
temper.”

“ Thank you,- — but there is no escaping these
little vexations, Mary, live where we may; and
when you are settled in town and I come to see
you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in
spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer, — or
perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness
and unpunctuality or their exorbitant charges and
frauds will he drawing forth hitter lamentations.”

“ I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel
anything of the sort. A large income is the
best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It cer¬
tainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part
of it.”

“You intend to he very rich,” said Edmund,
with a look which to Fanny’s eye had a great deal
of serious meaning.

“ To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all? ”

“I cannot intend anything which it must be so
completely beyond my power to command. Miss
Crawford may choose her degree of wealth. She
lias only to fix on her number of thousands a year,
and there can he no doubt of their coming. My
intentions are only not to he poor.

“By moderation and economy, and bringing
down your wants to your income and all that. I
understand you, — and a very proper plan it is for
a person at your time of life, with such limited
means and indifferent connections. What can
you want hut a decent maintenance? You have
not much time before you; and your relations are
in no situation to do anything for you, or to mor-

278

MANSFIELD PAKK.

tify you by the contrast of their own wealth and
consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means,,
but I shall not envy you; I do not much think
I shall even respect you. I have a much greater
respect for those that are honest and rich.’

“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or
poor, is precisely what I have no manner of con¬
cern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is
exactly what I have determined against. Honesty
in the something between, in the middle state of
worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for
your not looking down on. ’ ’

“But I do look down upon it, if it might have
been higher. I must look down upon anything
contented with obscurity when it might rise to
distinction.

“But how may it rise? How may my honesty
at least rise to any distinction?”

This was not so very easy a question to answer,
and occasioned an “ Oh! ” of some length from the
fair lady before she could add, “ You ought to be
in parliament, or you should have gone into the
army ten years ago.”

“That is not much to the purpose now; and
as to my being in parliament, I believe I must
wait till there is an especial assembly for the rep¬
resentation of younger sons who have little to
live on. No, Miss Crawford,” he added, in a
more serious tone, “there are distinctions which
I should be miserable if I thought myself without
any chance — absolutely without chance or possi¬
bility of obtaining; but they are of a different
character.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

279

A look of consciousness, as lie spoke, and what
seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Craw¬
ford’s side as she made some laughing answer, was
sorrowful food for Fanny’s observation; and find¬
ing herself quite unable to attend as she ought to
Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following
the others, she had nearly resolved on going home
immediately, and only waited for courage to say
so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield
Park, striking three, made her feel that she had
really been much longer absent than usual, and
brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she
should take leave or not just then, and how, to a
very speedy issue. Mfith undoubting decision she
directly began her adieus ; and Edmund began at
the same time to recollect that his mother had been
inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to
the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back. .

Fanny’s hurry increased ; and without in the
least expecting Edmund’s attendance, she would
have hastened away alone; but the general pace
was quickened, and they all accompanied her into
the house, through which it was necessary to pass.
Dr. Grant was in the vestibule ; and as they stopped
to speak to him, she found, from Edmund’s man¬
ner, that he did mean to go with her. He, too,
was taking leave. She could not but be thankful.
In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by
Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next
day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant
feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with
sudden recollection, turned to her, and asked for
the pleasure of her company too. This was so new

280

MANSFIELD PARK.

an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in
the events of Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise
and embarrassment; and while stammering out her
great obligation, and her “But she did not sup¬
pose it would he in her power,” was looking at
Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund,
delighted with her having such a happiness offered,
and ascertaining with half a look and half a sen¬
tence that she had no objection but on her aunt’s
account, could not imagine that his mother would
make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore
gave his decided open advice that the invitation
should he accepted; and though Fanny would not
venture, even on his encouragement, to such a
flight of audacious independence, it was soon set¬
tled that if nothing vrere heard to the contrary,
Mrs. Grant might expect her.

“And you know what your dinner will he,” said
Mrs. Grant, smiling, — “ the turkey, and I as¬
sure you a very fine one; for, my dear,” turning
to her husband, “cook insists upon the turkey’s
being dressed to-morrow.”

“ Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “ all
the better; T am glad to hear you have anything
so £ood in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their
chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of
fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,
is all we have in view. A turkey or a goose or a
leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook
choose to give us.”

The two cousins walked home together; and ex¬
cept in the immediate discussion of this engage-

MANSFIELD PARK.

285

spend the day with us, and I shall certainly he at
home.7’

“ Yery well, then; Fanny may go, Edmund.”

The good news soon followed her. Edmund
knocked at her door in his way to his own.

“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and
without the smallest hesitation on your uncle’s
side. He had hut one opinion. You are to go.”

“Thank you, I am so glad,” was Fanny’s in¬
stinctive reply; though when she had turned from
him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
“ And yet, why should I be glad, for am I not
certain of seeing or hearing something there to
pain me? ”

In spite of this conviction, however, she was
glad. Simple as such an engagement might ap¬
pear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance
in hers, for, excepting the day at Sotherton, she
had scarcely ever dined out before; and though
now going only half a mile and only to three peo¬
ple, still it was dining out, and all the little intei-
ests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves.
She had neither sympathy nor assistance from
those who ought to have entered into her feelings
and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never
thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Nor¬
ris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of ’an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas,
was in a very ill humor, and seemed intent only on
lessening her niece’s pleasure, both present and

future, as much as possible. _

“Upon my word, Fanny, you are m high luck
to meet with such attention and indulgence ! 1 ou

286

MANSFIELD PAEK.

ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for
thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you
go, and you ought to look upon it as something ex¬
traordinary ; for I hope you are aware that there is
no real occasion for your going into company in
this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it
is what you must not depend upon ever being re¬
peated. Nor must you be fancying that the invi¬
tation is meant as any particular compliment to
youj the compliment is intended to your uncle
and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility
due to us to take a little notice of you, or else it
would never have come into her head, and you
may be very certain that if your cousin Julia had
been at home, you would not have been asked at
all.”

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away
all Mrs. Grant’s part of the favor, that Fanny,
who found herself expected to speak, could only
say that she was very much obliged to her aunt
Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeav¬
oring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a
state as to prevent her being missed.

“Oh, depend upon it, your aunt can do very
well without you, or you would not be allowed to
go. I shall be here, so you may be quite easy
about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very
agreeable day, and find it all mighty delightful.
But I must observe that five is the very awkward-
est of all possible numbers to sit down to table;
and I cannot but be surprised that such an elegant
lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better!
And round their enormous great wide table, too,

MANSFIELD PARK.

287

which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the
Doctor been contented to take my dining-table
when I came away, as anybody in their senses
Would have done, instead of having that absurd
new one of his own, which is wider, literally
wider than the dinner-table here, — how infinitely
better it would have been, and how much more he
would have been respected! for people are never
respected when they step out of their proper sphere.
Remember that, Fanny. Five, only five to be sit¬
ting round that table! However, you will have
dinner enough on it for' ten, I dare say.”

Mrs. Norris fetched breath and went on again.

“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping
out of their rank and trying to appear above them¬
selves, makes me think it right to give you a hint,
Fanny, now that you are going into company with¬
out any of us ; and I do beseech and entreat you
not to be putting yourself forward, and talking
and giving your opinion as if you were one of your
cousins, — as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or
Julia. That will never do, believe me. Remem¬
ber, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and
last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at
home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking
place of her. And as to coming away at night,
you are to stay just as long as Edmund chooses.
Reave him to settle that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything

else.”

“And if it should rain, — which I think ex¬
ceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threaten¬
ing for a wet evening in my life’,- — you must

288

MANSFIELD PARK.

manage as well as you can, and not be expecting
the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not
go home to-night, and therefore the carriage will
not be out on my account; so you must make up
your mind to what may happen, and take your
things accordingly.”

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She
rated her own claims to comfort as low even as
Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon
afterwards, just opening the door, said, “Fanny,
at what time would you have the carriage come
round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which
made it impossible for her to speak.

“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris,
red with anger, “Fanny can walk.”

“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of
most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther
into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner en¬
gagement at this time of the year! Will twenty
minutes after four suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer, given
with the feelings almost of a criminal towards
Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her
in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed
her uncle out of the room, having stayed behind
him only long enough to hear these words spoken
in angry agitation, —

“Quite unnecessary !— a great deal too kind!
Sut Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund’s
account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday
night.”

But this could not impose ou Fanny. She felt
that the carriage was for herself, and herself alone;

MANSFIELD PARK.

289

and lier uncle’s consideration of her, coming im¬
mediately after such representations from her aunt,
cost her some tears of gratitude when she was
alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute ; another
minute brought down the gentleman; and as the
lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being
late, been many minutes seated in the drawing¬
room, Sir Thomas saw them off in as good time as
his own correctly punctual habits required.

“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Ed¬
mund, with the kind smile of an affectionate
brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as
well as I can judge by this light, you look very
nicely indeed. What have you got on?”

“The new dress that my uncle was so good as
to give me on my cousin’s marriage. I hope it is
not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as
soon as X could, and that I might not have such
another opportunity all the winter. I hope you
do not think me too fine.”

“ A woman can never be too fine while she is all
in white. No, I see no finery about you; nothing
but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems
very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not
Miss Crawford a gown something the same? ”

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close
by the stable-yard and coach-house.

“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here ’s company,
here ’s a carriage ! who have they got to meet us ?
And letting down the side-glass to distinguish,
“ ’Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s barouche, I protest!
There are his own two men pushing it back into
VOL. I. — 19

290

MANSFIELD PAEK.

its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is
quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to
see him.”

There was no occasion, there was no time foi
Fanny to say how very differently she felt; but
the idea of having such another to observe her
was a great increase of the trepidation with which
she performed the very awful ceremony of walking
into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly
was, having been just long enough arrived to be
ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks
of the three others standing round him showed
how welcome was his sudden resolution of coming
to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very
cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund;
and, with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure
was general; and even to her there might be some
advantage in his presence, since every addition to
the party must rather forward her favorite indul¬
gence of being suffered to sit silent and unat¬
tended to. She was soon aware of this herself;
for though she must submit, as her own propriety
of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris’s
opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon,
she found, while they were at table, such a happy
flow of conversation prevailing in which she was
not required to take any part, — there was so much
to be said between the brother and sister about
Bath, so much between the two young men about
hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford
and Dr. Grant, and of everything and altogether

MANSFIELD PARK.

291

between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave
her the fairest prospect of having only to listen in
quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She
could not compliment the newly arrived gentle¬
man, however, with any appearance of interest in
a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and
sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, sug¬
gested by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and
warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in pos¬
session of liis mind, and which he seemed to want
to be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her
opinion was sought as to the probable continuance
of the open weather; but her answers were as short
and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not
wish him to stay, and would much rather not have
him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were
much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no em¬
barrassing remembrance affected his spirits. Here
he was again on the same ground where all had
passed before, and apparently as willing to stay
and be happy without the Miss Bertrams as if he
had never known Mansfield in any other state.
She heard them spoken of by him only in a
general way, till they were all re-assembled in
the drawing-room, when Edmund being engaged
apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant,
which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs.
Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking
of them with more particularity to his other sister.
With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite
hate him, he said, “ So Rush worth and his fair bride
are at Brighton, I understand, — happy man! ”

292

MANSFIELD PARK.

“Yes, they have been there — about a fort¬
night, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is

with them.” _ ^

“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.

“Mr. Yates! Oh, we hear nothing of Mr.
Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the
letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price?
I think my friend Julia knows better than to
entertain her father with Mr. Yates.”

“ Poor Rush worth and his two-and-forty
speeches ! ” continued Crawford. “ Nobody can
ever forget them. Poor fellow! 1 see him now, —
his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mis¬
taken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to
make two-and-forty speeches to her; ” adding,
with a momentary seriousness, “She is too good
for him, — much too good.” And then changing
his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and
addressing Fanny, he said: “You were Mr. Rush-
worth’s best friend. Your kindness and patience
can never he forgotten, your indefatigable patience
in trying to make it possible for him to learn his
part, — in trying to give him a brain which nature
had denied, — to mix up an understanding for him
out of the superfluity of your own! He might not
have sense enough himself to estimate your kind¬
ness, hut I may venture to say that it had honor
from all the rest of the party.”

Fanny colored, and said nothing.

“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream! ” he ex¬
claimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes’
musing. “I shall always look hack on our theat¬
ricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an

MANSFIELD PARK.

293

interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused.
Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There
was employment, hope, solicitude, hustle for every
hmir of the day. • Always some little objection,
some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got
over. I never was happier.”

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to her¬
self : ‘ ‘ Fever happier ! — never happier than when
doing what you must know was not justifiable! —
never happier than when behaving so dishonorably
and unfeelingly! Oh, what a corrupted mind! ”

“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued
in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being
heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feel¬
ings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another
week, only one other week, would have been
enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal
of events, if Mansfield Park had had the govern¬
ment of the winds just for a week or two about the
equinox, there would have been a difference. Not
that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather, hut only by a steady con¬
trary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we
would have indulged ourselves with a week’s calm
in the Atlantic at that season.”

He seemed determined to be answered; and
Fanny, averting her face, said with a firmer tone
than usual: “As far as I am concerned, sir, I
would not have delayed his return for a day. My
uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did
arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone
quite far enough.”

She had never spoken so much at once to him in

294

MANSFIELD PARK.

her life before, and never so angrily to any one;
and when her speech was over, she trembled and
blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but
after a few moments’ silent consideration of her,
replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the can¬
did result of conviction, “ I believe you are right.
It was more pleasant than prudent. We were
getting too noisy.” And then turning the con¬
versation, he would have engaged her on some
other subject, but her answers were so shy and
reluctant that he could not advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eying
Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, “ Those
gentlemen must have some very interesting point
to discuss.”

“The most interesting in the world,” replied
her brother, — “how to make money, how to turn
a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving
Bertram instructions about the living he is to step
into so soon. I find he takes orders in a few
weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlor. I
am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He
will have a very pretty income to make ducks and
drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I
apprehend he will not have less than seven hun¬
dred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing
for a younger brother; and as of course he will still
live at home, it will be all for his menus plaisirs ;
and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose,
will be the sum total of sacrifice.”

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by say¬
ing, “Nothing amuses me more than the easy
manner with which everybody settles the abun-

MANSFIELD PARK.

295

dance of those who have a great deal less than
themselves. You would look rather blank, Henry,
if your menus plaisirs were to he limited to seven
hundred a year.”

“ Perhaps I might; but all that you know is en¬
tirely comparative. Birthright and habit must
settle the business. Bertram is certainly well off
for a cadet of even a Baronet’s family. By the
time he is four or five and twenty he will have
seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it.”

Miss Crawford could have said that there would
be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she
could not think lightly of; but she checked herself
and let it pass, and tried to look calm and uncon
cerned when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards
joined them.

“ Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “ I shall
make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you
preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose
to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be?
Miss Price, will not you join me in encouraging
your cousin? Will not you engage to attend with
your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time,,
as I shall do, — not to lose a word; or only looking
off just to* note down any sentence pre-eminently
beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets
and a pencil. When will it he? You must preach
at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and

Lady Bertram may hear you.”

“ I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as
I can,” said Edmund; “for you would he more
likely to disconcert me, and I should be more sorry
to see you trying at it, than almost any other man.

296

MANSFIELD PARK.

“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny.
“No, he can feel nothing as he ought.”

The party being now all united, and the chief
talkers attracting each other, she remained in tran¬
quillity; and as a whist-table was formed after tea,
— formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant,
by his attentive wife, though it was not to be sup¬
posed so, — and Miss Crawford took her harp,
she had nothing to do hut to listen; and her tran¬
quillity remained undisturbed the rest of the
evening, except when Mr. Crawford now and then
addressed to her a question or observation, wdrich
she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford
was too much vexed by what had passed to he in a
humor for anything hut music. With that, she
soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon to take
orders, coming upon her like a blow that had been
suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a dis¬
tance, was felt with resentment and mortification.
She was very angry with him. She had thought
her influence more. She had begun to think of
him — she felt that she had — with great regard,
with almost decided intentions; but she would now
meet him with his own cool feelings, it was plain
that he could have no serious views, no true attach¬
ment, by fixing himself in a situation which he
must know she would never stoop to. She would
learn to match him in his indifference. She would
henceforth admit his attentions without any idea
beyond immediate amusement. If he could so
command his affections, hers should do her no
harm.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind
by the next morning to give another fortnight to
Mansfield; and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral,
he looked round at his sister as he sealed and threw
the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of
the rest of the family, said with a smile: “ And
how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary,
on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown too
old to go out more than three times a week; but I
have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do
you think it is? ”

“ To walk and ride with me, to he sure.”

“ Xot exactly, though I shall be happy to do
both; but that would he exercise only to my body,
and I must take care of my mind. Besides, that
would be all recreation and indulgence, without
the wholesome alloy of labor, and I do not like to
eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make
Fanny Price in love with me.

“ Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no; you ought
to be satisfied with her two cousins.”

But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price,
without making a small hole in Fanny Price s
heart. You do not seem properly aware of her
claims to notice. When we talked of her last

298

MANSFIELD PARK.

night, you none of you seemed sensible of the won¬
derful improvement that has taken place in her
looks within the last six weeks. You see her
every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I as¬
sure you, she is quite a different creature from
what she was in the autumn. She was then merely
a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl ; but she Is
now absolutely pretty. I used to think she had
neither complexion nor countenance; but in that
soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush
as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty; and
from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do
not despair of their being capable of expression
enough when she has anything to express. And
then — her air, her manner, her tout ensemble, is
so indescribably improved! She must be grown
two inches, at least, since October.”

‘ 1 Phoo ! phoo ! This is only because there were
no tall women to compare her with, and because
she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before. She is just what she was in
October, believe me. The truth is, that she was
the only girl in company for you to notice, and
you must have a somebody. I have always thought
her pretty, — not strikingly pretty, — but “pretty
enough,” as people say; a sort of beauty that grows
on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a
sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of
i improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into
a better style of dress and your having nobody else
to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a
flirtation with her, you never will persuade me
that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that it

MANSFIELD PARK. 299

proceeds from anything but your own idleness and
folly.”

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation,
and soon afterwards said: “I do not quite know
what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not under¬
stand her. I could not tell what she would be
at yesterday. What is her character? Is she
solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why
did she draw hack and look so grave at me? I
could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long
in company with a girl in my life, — trying to
entertain her, — and succeed so ill! Never met
with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must
try to get the better of this. Her looks say, ‘ I
will not like you, I am determined not to like
you;’ and I say, she shall,”

“ Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction,
after all ! This it is, — her not caring about you,

- — which gives her such a soft skin, and makes her
so much taller, and produces all these charms and
graces ! I do desire that you will not be making
her really unhappy; a little love perhaps may
animate and do her good, but I will not have you
plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature
as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling.”

‘ ‘ It can be hut for a fortnight,” said Henry;
“ and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have
a constitution which nothing could save. No, I
will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only
want her to look kindly on me, to give me smiles
as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by her¬
self wherever we are, and he all animation when
I take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be

MANSFIELD PARK.

300

interested in all my possessions and pleasures, try
to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I
go away that she shall he never happy again. I
want nothing more.”

‘ ‘ Moderation itself ! ” said Mary. ‘Mean have
no scruples now. Well, you will have opportuni¬
ties enough of endeavoring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together.

And without attempting any further remon¬
strance, she left Fanny to her fate, — a fate which,
had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been
a little harder than she deserved; for although
there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies
of eighteen (or one should not read about them)
as are never to be persuaded into love against
their judgment by all that talent, manner, atten¬
tion, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to
believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with
so much tenderness of disposition and so much
taste as belonged to her, she could have escaped
heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship
only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford,
in spite of there being some previous ill-opinion
of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
engaged elsewhere. With all the security which
love of another and disesteem of him could give
Ao the peace of mind he was attacking, his con¬
tinued attentions — continued, hut not obtrusive,
and adapting themselves more and more to the
gentleness and delicacy of her character — obliged
her very soon to dislike him less than, formerly.
She had by no means forgotten the past, and she

MANSFIELD PARK.

301

thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his
powers: he was entertaining; and his manners
were so improved, so polite, so seriously and
blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to
be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this ; and
at the end of those few days circumstances arose
which had a tendency rather to forward his views
of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a de¬
gree of happiness which must dispose her to be
pleased with everybody. William, her brother,
the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was
in England again. She had a letter from him
herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as the
ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth,
with the first boat that left the Antwerp, at an¬
chor, in Spithead; and when Crawford walked up
with the newspaper in his hand, which he had
hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her
trembling with joy over this letter, and listening
with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind
invitation which her uncle was most collectedly
dictating in reply.

It was but the day before, that Crawford had
made himself thoroughly master of the subject, or
had in fact become at all aware of her having such
a brother, or his being in such a ship; but the m
terest then excited had been very properly lively,
determining him on his return to town to apply
for information as to the probable period of the
Antwerp’s return from the Mediterranean, etc.;
and the good luck which attended his early exam¬
ination of ship news, the next morning, seemed

302

MANSFIELD PARK.

the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a
method of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful
attention to the Admiral, in having for many
years taken in the paper esteemed to have the
earliest naval intelligence. He proved, however,
to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of
which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already
given. But his intention, the kindness of his in¬
tention, was thankfully acknowledged, — quite
thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated be¬
yond the common timidity of her mind by the
flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them.
There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of
absence immediately, for he was still only a mid¬
shipman; and as his parents, from living on the
spot, must already have seen him and be seeing
him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with
justice be instantly given to the sister, who had
been his best correspondent through a period of
seven years, and the uncle who had done most for
his support and advancement; and accordingly the
reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his
arrival, came as soon as possible ; and scarcely ten
days had passed since Fanny had been in the agi¬
tation of her first dinner visit, when she found
herself in an agitation of a higher nature, — watch-
ipg in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the
first sound of the carriage which was to bring her
a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting;
and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness
to delay the moment of meeting, she was with him

MANSFIELD PARK.

303

as he entered the house, and the first minutes of
exquisite feeling had no interruption and no wit¬
nesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon
opening the proper doors .could he called such.
This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund
had been separately conniving at, as each proved
to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with
which they both advised Mrs. Norris’s continuing
where she was, instead of rushing out into the
hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached
them.

William and Fanny soon showed themselves-,
and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in
his protege, certainly a very different person from
the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a
young man of an open, pleasant countenance, and
frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful man¬
ners, and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was: long before Fanny could recover from the
agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed
by the last thirty minutes of expectation and the
first of fruition; it was some time even before her
happiness could be said to make her happy, before
the disappointment inseparable from the alteration
of person had vanished, and she could see in him
the same William as before, and talk to him, as
her heart had been yearning to do, through many
a past year. That time, however, did gradually
come, forwarded by an affection on his side as
warm as her own, and much less encumbered by
refinement or self-distrust. She was the first
object of his love; but it was a love which Ins
stronger spirits and bolder temper made it as

304

MANSFIELD PARK.

natural for him to express as to feel. On the
morrow they were walking about together with
true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow re¬
newed a tete-a-tete, which Sir Thomas could not
but observe with complacency, even before Ed¬
mund had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight,
which any marked or unlooked-for instance of
Edmund’s consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so
much felicity in her life as in this unchecked,
equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
friend, who was opening all his heart to her, tell-
i ug her all his hopes and fears, plans and solici¬
tudes respecting that long thought of, dearly

earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion, _

who could give her direct and minute information
of the father and mother, brothers and sisters, of
whom she very seldom heard, — who was interested
In all the comforts and all the little hardships of
her home at Mansfield, ready to think of every
member of that home as she directed, or differing
only by a less scrupulous opinion and more noisy
abuse of their aunt Norris, — and with whom
{perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all
the evil and good of their earliest years could be
gone over again, and every former united pain
apd pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.
An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in
which even the conjugal tie is beneath the frater-
nah Children of the same family, the same blood,
with the same first associations and habits, have
some means of enjoyment in their power which

MANSFIELD PARK.

305

no subsequent connections can supply; and it
must be by a long and unnatural estrangement,
by a divorce which no subsequent connection can
justify, if such precious remains of the earliest
attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often,
alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost-
everything, is at others worse than nothing. But
with William and Fanny Price it was still a sen¬
timent in all its prime and freshness, wounded by
no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate
attachment, and feeling the influence of time aud
absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in
the opinion of all who had hearts to value anything
good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with
it as any. He honored the warm-hearted blunt
fondness of the young sailor, which led him to
say, with his hand stretched towards Fanny’s
head: “Do you know, I begin to like that queer
fashion already, though when I first heard of such
things being done in England, I could not believe
it, and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women
at the Commissioner’s at Gibraltar, appeared in
the same trim, I thought they were mad; but
Fanny can reconcile me to anything; ” — and saw,
with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny’s
cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep interest,
the absorbed attention, while her brother was de¬
scribing any of the imminent hazards or temlic
scenes which such a period at sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had
moral taste enough to value. Fanny’s attractions
increased, — increased twofold; for the sensibility
vol. i. — 20

306

MANSFIELD PARK.

which beautified her complexion and illumined her
countenance was an attraction in itself. He was
no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart.
She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be
something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the
first ardors of her young, unsophisticated mind!
She interested him more than he had foreseen. A
fortnight was not enough. His stay became
indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be
the talker. His recitals were amusing in them¬
selves to Sir Thomas; but the chief object in seek¬
ing them was to understand the reciter, to know
the young man by his histories; and he listened
to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satis¬
faction, seeing in them the proof of good princi¬
ples, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and
cheerfulness, — everything that could deserve or
promise well. Young as he was, William had
already seen a great deal. He had been in the
Mediterranean, in the West Indies, in the Medi¬
terranean again; had been often taken on shore by
the favor of his captain, and in the course of seven
years had known every variety of danger which
sea and war together could offer. With such
means in his power he had a right to be listened
to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the
ro(>m, and disturb everybody in quest of two
needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button
in the midst of her nephew’s account of a ship¬
wreck or an engagement, everybody else was at¬
tentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of
such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lift-

MANSFIELD PARK.

307

mg her eyes from her work to say, “Dear me!
how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go
to sea.”

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling.
He longed to have been at sea, and seen and done
and suffered as much. His heart was warm, his
fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a
lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through
such bodily hardships, and given such proofs of
mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of
exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of self¬
ish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and
he wished he had been a William Price, distin¬
guishing himself and working his way to fortune
and consequence with so much self-respect and
happy ardor,, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He
was roused from the reverie of retrospection and
regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Ed¬
mund as to his plans for the next day’s hunting;
and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune
at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the
means of conferring a kindness where he wished to
oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity up
to anything, William expressed an inclination to
hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the
slightest inconvenience to himself, and with only
some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew
better than his nephew the value of such a loan,
and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She
feared for William, by no means convinced by all
that he could relate of his own horsemanship in

308

MANSFIELD PARK.

various countries, of the scrambling parties in
which he had been engaged, the rough horses and
mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes
from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the
management of a high-fed hunter in an English
fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, with¬
out accident or discredit, could she be reconciled
to the risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr.
Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully
intended it should produce. When it was proved,
however, to have done William no harm, she
could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one
minute tendered to his use again, and the next,
with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not
to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so
long as he remained in Northamptonshire.

V

MANSFIELD PARK

PART SECOND

MANSFIELD PARK.

CHAPTER I.

intercourse of the two families was at
is period more nearly restored to
hat it had been in the autumn, than
iy member of the old intimacy had
thought ever likely to be again. The return of
Henry Crawford and the arrival of William Price
had much to do with it, but much was still owing
to Sir Thomas’s more than toleration of the neigh¬
borly attempts at the Parsonage, His mind, now
disengaged from the cares which had pressed on
him at first, was at leisure to find the Grants and
their young inmates really worth visiting; and
though infinitely above scheming or contriving for
any the most advantageous matrimonial establish¬
ment that could he among the apparent possibili¬
ties of any one most dear to him, and disdaining
even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on
such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in a
grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was

6

MANSFIELD PARK.

somewhat distinguishing his niece, nor perhaps
refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more
willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the
Parsonage, — when the general invitation was at
last hazarded, after many debates and many doubts
as to whether it were worth while, “because Sir
Thomas seemed so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram
was so indolent! ” — proceeded from good breeding
and good-will alone, and had nothing to do with
Mr. Crawford, hut as being one in an agreeable
group; for it was in the course of that very visit
that he first began to think that any one in the
habit of such idle observations would have thought
that Mr. Crawford was the admirer of -Fanny
Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant
one, being composed in a good proportion of those
who would talk and those who would listen; and
the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, accord¬
ing to the usual style of the Grants, and too much
according to the usual habits of all to raise any
emotion except in Mrs. Norris, ■who could never
behold either the wide table or the number of
dishes on it with patience, and who did always
contrive to experience some evil from the passing
of the servants behind her chair, and to bring away
S£>me fresh conviction of its being impossible
among so many dishes but that some must be
cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the
predetermination of Mrs. Grant and her sister,
that after making up the whist-table there would

MANSFIELD PARK.

7

remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody
being as perfectly complying and without a choice
as on such occasions they always are, speculation
was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady
Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation
of being applied to for her own choice between the
games, and being required either to draw a card
for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir
Thomas was at hand.

“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and
speculation, — which will amuse me most?”

Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recom¬
mended speculation. He was a whist-player him¬
self, and perhaps might feel that it would not
much amuse him to have her for a partner.

“ Very well,” was her Ladyship’s contented
answer; “then speculation, if you please, Mrs.
Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must
teach me.”

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious
protestations of her own equal ignorance; she had
never played the game nor seen it played in her
life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment’s indecision
again, — but upon everybody’s assuring her that
nothing could be so easy, that it was the easiest
game on the cards, and Henry Crawford’s stepping
forward with a most earnest request to be allowed
to sit between her Ladyship and Miss Price, and
teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas,
Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated
at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity,
the remaining six, under Miss Crawford s direc¬
tion, were arranged round the other. It was a tine

8

MANSFIELD PARK.

arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to
Fanny, and with his hands full of business, hav¬
ing two persons’ cards to manage as well as his
own, — for though it was impossible for Fanny not
to feel herself mistress of the rules of the game in
three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,
sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which,
especially in any competition with William, was a
work of some difficulty;, and as for Lady Bertram,
he must continue in charge of all her fame and
fortune through the whole evening; and if quick
. enough to keep her from looking at her cards when
the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to
be done with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with
happy ease, and pre-eminent in all the lively turns,
quick resources, and playful impudence that could
do honor to the game ; and the round table was al¬
together a very comfortable contrast to the steady
sobriety and orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoy¬
ment and success of his lady, but in vain; no
pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state
could be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at the
end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her
compliments.

-v “I hope your Ladyship is pleased with the
game.”

“ Oh dear, yes. Very entertaining indeed. A
very odd game. I do not know what it is all
about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr.
Crawford does all the rest.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

9

“ Bertram,” said Crawford, some time after¬
wards, taking the opportunity of a little languor in
the game, “ I have never told you what happened
to me yesterday in my ride home.” They had
been hunting together, and were in the midst of a
good run, and at some distance from Mansfield,
when his horse being found to have flung a shoe,
Henry Crawford had been obliged to give up, and
make the best of his way back. “I told you I
lost my way after passing that old farmhouse
with the yew-trees, because I can never bear to
ask; but I have not told you that with my usual
luck . — for I never do wrong without gaining by
it — I found myself in due time in the very place
which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,
upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field,
in the midst of a retired little village between
gently rising hills ; a small stream before me to be
forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my
right — which church was strikingly large and
handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or
half a gentleman’s house to be seen, excepting one

_ to be presumed the Parsonage — within a

stone’s-throw of the said knoll and church. I
found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.”

“ It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “ but which
way did you turn after passing Sewell’s farm? ”

“ I answer no such irrelevant and insidious
questions; though were I to answer all that you
could put in the course of an hour, you would
never be able to prove that it was not Thornton
Lacey, — for such it certainly was.”

“ You inquired, then? ”

10

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ No, I never inquire. But I told a man mend¬
ing a hedge that it was Thornton Lacey, and he
agreed to it.”

“You have a good memory. I had forgotten
having ever told you half so much of the place.”

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending
living, as Miss Crawford well knew; and her in¬
terest in a negotiation for William Price’s knave
increased.

“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did
you like what you saw? ”

“Very much, indeed. You are a lucky fellow.
There will be work for five summers at least before
the place is live-able.”

“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard
must be moved, I grant you ; but I am not aware
of anything else. The house is by no means bad;
and when the yard is removed, there may be a very
tolerable approach to it.”

‘ ‘ The farmyard must be cleared away entirely,
and planted up to shut out the blacksmith’s shop.
The house must be turned to front the east instead
of the north, — the entrance and principal rooms,
I mean, must be on that side, where the view is
really very pretty ; I am sure it may be done.
And there must be your approach, — through what
is at present the garden. You must make a new
^garden at what is now the back of the house, which
will be giving it the best aspect in the world, —
sloping to the southeast. The ground seems pre¬
cisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the
lane between the church and the house in order to
look about me, and saw how it might all be.

MANSFIELD PARK.

11

Nothing can he easier. The meadows beyond
what will he the garden, as well as what now is,
sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the
northeast, that is, to the principal road through
the village, must he all laid together, of course;
very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled
with timber. They belong to the living, I sup¬
pose. If not, you must purchase them. Then the
stream, — something must be done with the stream ;
hut I could not quite determine what. I had two
or three ideas.”

‘ ‘ And I have two or three ideas also,” said Ed¬
mund, “ and one of them is that very little of
your plan for Thornton Eacey will ever he put in
practice. I must he satisfied with rather less or¬
nament and beauty. I think the house and prem¬
ises may be made comfortable, and given the air
of a gentleman’s residence without any very heavy
expense, and that must suffice me ; and I hope may
suffice all who care about me.

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful
of a certain tone of voice and a certain half-look
attending the last expression of his hope, made a
hasty finish of her dealings with William Trice;
and securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, ex
claimed: “There, I will stake my last, like a woman
of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not
born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the
game, it shall not be from not striving for it

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for
what she had given to secure it. Another deal
proceeded, and Crawford began again about Thorn¬
ton Lacey.

12

MANSFIELD PARK.

“My plan may not be the best possible; I had
not many minutes to form it in: but you must do
a good deal. The place deserves it, and you will
find yourself not satisfied with much less than it
is capable of. (Excuse me, your Ladyship must
not see your cards. There, let them lie just before
you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk
of giving it the air of a gentleman's residence.
That will be done, by the removal of the farm¬
yard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I
never saw a house of the kind which had in itself
so much the air of a gentleman’s residence, so
much the look of a something above a mere par¬
sonage house, — above the expenditure of a few
hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection
of low single rooms, with as many roofs as windows,
— it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of
a square farmhouse, — it is a solid, roomy, man¬
sion-like looking house, such as one might suppose
a respectable old country family had lived in from
generation to generation, through two centuries at
least, and were now spending from two to three
thousand a year in.” Miss Crawford listened, and
Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentle¬
man’s residence, therefore, you cannot but give it,
if you do anything. But it is capable of much
more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a
dozen for that queen ; no, no, a dozen is more than
it is worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen.
She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.)
By some such improvements as I have suggested
(I do not really require you to proceed upon my
plan, though, by the by, I doubt anybody’s strik-

MANSFIELD PARK.

13

ing out a better), you may give it a higher char¬
acter. You may raise it into a place. From be¬
ing the mere gentleman’s residence, it becomes, by
judicious improvement, the residence of a man of
education, taste, modern manners, good connec¬
tions. All this may be stamped on it; and that
house receive such an air as to make its owner be
set down as the great landholder of the parish, by
every creature travelling the road; especially as
there is no real squire’s house to dispute the point,

. — a circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance
the value of such a situation in point of privilege and
independence beyond all calculation. You think
with me, I hope,” turning with a softened voice
to Fanny. “Have you ever seen the place?

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide
her interest in the subject by an eager attention
to her brother, who was driving as hard a bargain
and imposing on her as much as he could; but
Crawford pursued with: “No, no, you must not
part with the queen. You have bought her too
dearly, and your brother does not offer half her
value. No, no, sir, hands off, — hands off. Four
sister does not part with the queen. She is quite
determined. The game will be yours,” turning
to her again; “it will certainly be yours.

“And Fanny had much rather it were Wil¬
liam’s,” said Edmund, smiling at her. “ Poor
Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she

wishes!”

“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few
minutes afterwards, “you know Henry to be such
a capital improver that you cannot possibly en-

14

MANSFIELD PARK.

gage in anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey
without accepting his help. Only think how use¬
ful he was at Sotherton ! Only think what grand
things were produced there by our all going with
him one hot day in August to drive about the
grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we
went, and there we came home again; and what
was done there is not to be told!”

Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for a
moment with an expression more than grave, even
reproachful; but on catching his were instantly
withdrawn. With something of consciousness he
shook his head at his sister, and laughingly re¬
plied: “ I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all
walking after each other and bewildered.” As
soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added,
in a low voice directed solely at Fanny: “ I should
be sorry to have my powers of planning judged
of by the day at Sotherton. I see things very
differently now. Do not think of me as I ap¬
peared then.”

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and
being just then in the happy leisure which fol¬
lowed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s
capital play and her own, against Dr. and Mrs.
Grant’s great hands, she called out in high good-
Ljumor : “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place, indeed,
and we had a charming day there. William, you
are quite out of luck ; but the next time you come
I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at
home, and I am sure I can answer for your being
kindly received by both. Your cousins are not of

MANSFIELD PARK.

15

a sort to forget their relations, and Mr. Rushworth
is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton
now, you know, — in one of the best houses there,
as Mr. Rushworth’s fine fortune gives them a
right to he. I do not exactly know the distance;
hut when you get hack to Portsmouth, if it is not
very far off, you ought to go over and pay your
respects to them; and I could send a little par¬
cel by you that I want to get conveyed to your
cousins.”

“I should he very happy, aunt, but Brighton
is almost by Beachey Head; and if I could get so
far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
smart place as that, — poor scrubby midshipman
as I am.”

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance
of the affability he might depend on, when she
was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with author¬
ity: U1 do not advise your going to Brighton,
William, as I trust you may soon have more con¬
venient opportunities of meeting; but my daugh¬
ters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere,
and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely
disposed to regard all the connections of our fam¬
ily as his own.”

“ I would rather find him private secretary to
the First Lord than anything else,” was Wil¬
liam’s only answer, in an under voice, not meant
to reach far; and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark
in Mr. Crawford’s behavior; but when the whist-
table broke up at the end of the second rubber,
and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute

16

MANSFIELD PARK.

over their last play, he became a looker-on at the
other, he found his niece the object of attentions,
or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed
character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another
scheme about Thornton Lacey; and not being able
to catch Edmund’s ear, was detailing it to his fair
neighbor with a look of considerable earnestness.
His scheme was to rent the house himself the fol¬
lowing winter, that he might have a home of his
own in that neighborhood; and it was not merely
for the use of it in the hunting-season (as he was
then telling her), though that consideration had
certainly some weight, feeling as he did that in
spite of all Dr. Grant’s very great kindness, it was
impossible for him and his horses to be accommo¬
dated where they now were without material incon¬
venience; but his attachment to that neighborhood
did not depend upon one amusement or one season
of the year: he had set his heart upon having a
something there that he could come to at any time,
a little home-stall at his command, where all the
holidays of his year might be spent, and he might
find himself continuing, improving, and perfecting
that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield
Park family which was increasing in value to him
every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not of¬
fended. There was no want of respect in the
young man’s address; and Eanny’s reception of it
was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting,
that he had nothing to censure in her. She said
little, assented only here and there, and betrayed
no inclination either of appropriating any part of

MANSFIELD PARK.

17

the compliment to herself or of strengthening his
views in favor of Northamptonshire. Finding by
whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed
himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas in a
more every-day tone, but still with feeling.

“ I want to be your neighbor, Sir Thomas, as
you have, perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price.
May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not
influencing your son against such a tenant?”

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied: “ It is
the only way, sir, in which I could not wish you
established as a permanent neighbor; but I hope
and believe that Edmund will occupy his own
house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I saying
too much?”

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what
was going on; but on understanding the question,
was at no loss for an answer.

“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.
But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant,
come to me as a friend. Consider the house as
half your own every winter, and we will add to the
stables on your own improved plan, and with all
the improvements of your improved plan that may
occur to you this spring. ”

“We shall be the losers,” continued Sir Thomas.
“ His going, though only eight miles, will be an
unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but I
should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine
could reconcile himself to doing less. It is perfectly
natural that you should not have thought much on
the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants
and claims which can be known only by a clergy'

VOL. XI. — 2

13

MANSFIELD PARK.

man constantly resident, and which no proxy can
be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Ed¬
mund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of
Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and
preach, without giving up Mansfield Park; he
might ride over, every Sunday, to a house nominally
inhabited, and go through divine service; he might
be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh
day, for three or four hours, if that would content
him. But it will not. He knows that human na¬
ture needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can
convey; and that if he does not live among his
parishioners, and prove himself by constant atten¬
tion their well-wisher and friend, he does very little
either for their good or his own.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that
Thornton Lacey is the only house in the neighbor¬
hood in which I should not be happy to wait on
Mr. Crawford as occupier.”

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “ undoubtedly un¬
derstands the duty of a parish priest. We must
hope his son may prove that he knows it too.”

Whatever effect Sir Thomas’s little harangue
might really produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised
some awkward sensations in two of the others, — two
&f his most attentive listeners, Miss Crawford and
Fanny, — one of whom, having never before under¬
stood that Thornton was so soon and so completely
to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes
on what it would be not to see Edmund every day;
and the other, startled from the agreeable fancies

MANSFIELD PARK.

19

she had been previously indulging on the strength
of her brother’s description, — no longer able, in the
picture she had been forming of a future Thornton,
to shut out the church, sink the clergyman, and
see only the respectable, elegant, modernized, and
occasional residence of a man of independent for¬
tune, — was considering Sir Thomas, with decided
ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and suffering
the more from that involuntary forbearance which
his character and manner commanded, and from
not daring to relieve herself by a single attempt
at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of her speculation was over for
that hour. It was time to have done with cards if
sermons prevailed; and she was glad to find it
necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to re¬
fresh her spirits by a change of place and neighbor.

The chief of the party were now collected ir¬
regularly round the fire, and waiting the final
break up. William and Fanny were the most de¬
tached. They remained together at the otherwise
deserted card-table, talking very comfortably, and
not thinking of the rest, till some of the rest began
to think of them. Henry Crawford’s chair was the
first to be given a direction towards them, and he
sat silently observing them for a few minutes ; him¬
self, in the mean while, observed by Sir Thomas,
who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

“ This is the assembly night,” said William.
“If I were at Portsmouth, I should be at it

perhaps.”

“But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth,
William? ”

20

MANSFIELD PARK.

“No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have
enough of Portsmouth, and of dancing too, when
I cannot have you; and I do not know that there
would be any good in going to the assembty, for I
might not get a partner. The Portsmouth girls
turn up their noses at anybody who has not a
commission. One might as well he nothing as a
midshipman. One is nothing, indeed. You re¬
member the Gregorys; they are grown up amaz¬
ing fine girls, but they will hardly speak to me,
because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant.”

“Oh, shame, shame! But never mind it, Wil¬
liam,” her own cheeks in a glow of indignation as
she spoke; “it is not worth minding. It is no re¬
flection on you; it is no more than what the great¬
est admirals have all experienced, more or less, in
their time. You must think of that; you must
try to make up your mind to it as one of the hard¬
ships which fall to every sailor’s share, — like bad
weather and hard living, — only with this advan¬
tage, that there will be an end to it, that there
will come a time when you will have nothing of
that sort to endure. When you are a lieutenant !
— only think, William, when you are a lieutenant,
how little you will care for any nonsense of this
kind.”

“I begin to think I shall never he a lieutenant,
Fitnny. Everybody gets made but me.”

“Oh, my dear William, do not talk so, do not
be so desponding. My uncle says nothing, but I
am sure he will do everything in his power to get
you made. He knows as well as you do, of what
consequence it is.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

21

She was checked hy the sight of her uncle much
nearer to them than she had any suspicion of, and
each found it necessary to talk of something else.

“ Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?”

“ Yes, very; only I am soon tired.”

“I should like to go to a ball with you and see
you dance. Have you never any balls at North¬
ampton? I should like to see you dance, and I ’d
dance with you if you would, for nobody would
know who I was here, and I should like to be your
partner once more. We used to jump about to¬
gether many a time, did not we, when the hand-
organ was in the street? I am a pretty good dancer
in my way, but I dare say you are a better. And
turning to his uncle, who was now close to them,
“Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir? ”

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented
question, did not know which way to look, or how
to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of in¬
difference, must be coming to distress her brother,
and sink her to the ground. But, on the contrary,
it was no worse than : “lam sorry to say that I am
unable to answer your question. I have never seen
Fanny dance since she was a little girl; but I trust
we shall botli think she acquits herself like a gen¬
tlewoman when we do see her, which perhaps we
may have an opportunity of doing erelong.

»» X have had the pleasure of seeing your sister
dance, Mr. Price,” said Henry Crawford, leaning
forward, “ and will engage to answer every in¬
quiry which you can make on the subject, to your
entire satisfaction. But I believe,” seeing Fanny

22

MANSFIELD PARK.

looked distressed, “it must be at some other time.
There is one person in company who does not like
to have Miss Price spoken of.”

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance;
and it was equally true that he would now have
answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
elegance, and in admirable time: but in fact he
could not for the life of him recall what her danc¬
ing had been, and rather took it for granted that
she had been present than remembered anything
about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her danc¬
ing; and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, pro¬
longed the conversation on dancing in general, and
was so well engaged in describing the balls of An¬
tigua, and listening to what his nephew could
relate of the different modes of dancing which had
fallen within his observation, that he had not heard
his carriage announced, and was first called to the
knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about?
We are going. Do not you see your aunt is going?
Quick, quick. I cannot bear to keep good old Wil¬
cox waiting. You should always remember the
coachman and horses. My dear Sir Thomas, we
have settled it that the carriage should come back
for you and Edmund and William.”

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his
own arrangement, previously communicated to his
wife and sister; but that seemed forgotten by Mrs.
Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
herself.

Fanny’s last feeling in the visit was disappoint-

MANSFIELD PARK.

23

ment, — for tire shawl which Edmund was quietly
taking from the servant to bring and put round
her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker
hand, and she was obliged to he indebted to his
more prominent attention.

CHAPTER II.

"William’s desire of seeing Eanny dance made
more than a momentary impression on his uncle.
The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas had
then given, was not given to he thought of no
more. He remained steadily inclined to gratify
so amiable a feeling, — to gratify anybody else who
might wish to see Eanny dance, and to give pleas¬
ure to the young people in general; and having
thought the matter over, and taken his resolution
in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling
and commending what his nephew had said, he
added, “I do not like, William, that you should
leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence.
It would give me pleasure to see you both dance.
You spoke of the halls at Northampton. Your
cousins have occasionally attended them; hut they
would not altogether suit us now. The fatigue
would he too much for your aunt. I believe, we
must not think of a Northampton hall. A dance
atxhome would be more eligible; and if — ”

“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas,” interrupted Mrs.
Norris, “I knew what was coming. I knewr what
you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford
a reason, an occasion for such a thing, you would

MANSFIELD PARK.

25

be tempted to give the young people a dance at
Mansfield. I know you would. If they were at
home to grace the ball, a ball you would have this
very Christmas. Thank your uncle, William,
thank your uncle.”

“ My daughters, ” replied Sir Thomas, gravely
interposing, “have their pleasures at Brighton,
and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their
cousins. Could we be all assembled, our satisfac¬
tion would undoubtedly be more complete; but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of
amusement.”

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She
saw decision in his looks, and her surprise and
vexation required some minutes’ silence to be set¬
tled into composure. A ball at such a time ! His
daughters absent, and herself not consulted! There
was comfort, however, soon at hand. She must be
the doer of everything; Lady Bertram would of
course be spared all thought and exertion, and it
would all fall upon her. She should have to do the
honors of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good humor as enabled her
to join in with the others, before their happiness
and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their dif¬
ferent ways, look and speak as much grateful pleas¬
ure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire. Edmund’s feelings were for the other two.
His father had never conferred a favor or shown a
kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and con.

26

MANSFIELD PARK.

tented, and had no objections to make. Sii
Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him “ that she was not at
all afraid of the trouble, —indeed, she could not
imagine there would be any.”

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as
to the rooms he would think fittest to be used, but
found it all prearranged; and when she would have
conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared
that the day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been
amusing himself with shaping a very complete out¬
line of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to he
invited, from whom he calculated, with all neces¬
sary allowance for the shortness of the notice, to
collect young people enough to form twelve or four¬
teen couple; and could detail the considerations
which had induced him to fix on the 22d as the
most eligible day. William was required to he at
Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22d would therefore
be the last day of his visit; but where the days
were so few, it would be unwise to fix on any
earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to he satisfied
with thinking just the same, and with having been
on the point of proposing the 22d herself, as by far
the best day for the purpose.

The hall was now a settled thing, and before the
' evening a proclaimed thing to all whom it con¬
cerned. Invitations were sent with despatch, and
many a young lady went to bed that night with
her head full of happy cares, as well as Fanny. To
her the cares were sometimes almost beyond the
happiness; for young and inexperienced, with

MANSFIELD PARK.

27

small means of choice, and no confidence in her
own taste, the “how she should be dressed”
was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost
solitary ornament in her possession, a very pretty
amber cross which William had brought her from
Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had
nothing but a bit of riband to fasten it to; and
though she had worn it in that manner once, would
it be allowable at such a time, in the midst of all
the rich ornaments which she supposed all the
other young ladies would appear in? And yet not
to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold
chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his
means, and therefore not to wear the cross might
be mortifying him. These were anxious consider¬
ations; enough to sober her spirits even under
the prospect of a ball given principally for her
gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady
Bertram continued to sit on her sofa without any
inconvenience from them. She had some extra
visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was
rather hurried in making up a new dress for her;
Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran
about : but all this gave her no trouble, and, as she
had foreseen, “ there was, in fact, no trouble in the
business.”

Edmund was at this time particularly full of
cares; his mind being deeply occupied in the con¬
sideration of two important events now at hand,
which were to fix his fate in life, — ordination and
matrimony, — events of such a serious character
as to make the ball, which would be very quickly

28

MANSFIELD PARK.

followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
his eyes than in those of any other person in the
house. On the 23d he was going to a friend near
Peterborough in the same situation as himself, and
they were to receive ordination in the course of
Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be
determined; but the other half might not be so
smoothly wooed. His duties would be established;
but the wife who was to share and animate and
reward those duties might yet be unattainable.
He knew his own mind, but he was not always
perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s.
There were points on which they did not quite
agree, there were moments in which she did not
seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to
her affection, so far as to be resolved (almost re¬
solved) on bringing it to a decision within a very
short time, as soon as the variety of business before
him were arranged, and he knew what he had to
offer her, — he had many anxious feelings, many
doubting hours as to the result. His conviction of
her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he
could look back on a long course of encouragement,
and she was as perfect in disinterested attachment
as in everything else. But at other times doubt
and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when
he thought of her acknowledged disinclination for
priyacv and retirement, her decided preference of a
London life, — what could he expect but a deter¬
mined rejection? unless it were an acceptance even
more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices
of situation and employment on his side as
conscience must forbid.

MANSFIELD PARK.

29

The issue of all depended on one question. Did
she love him well enough to forego what had used
to be essential points, — did she love him well
enough to make them no longer essential? And
this question, which he was continually repeat¬
ing to himself, though oftenest answered with a
“Yes,” had sometimes its “No.”

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and
on this circumstance the “no” and the “yes”
had been very recently in alternation. He had
seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear
friend’s letter, which claimed a long visit from her
in London, and of the kindness of Henry in en¬
gaging to remain where he was till January, that
he might convey her thither; he had heard her
speak of the pleasure of such a journey with an
animation which had “no” in every tone. But
this had occurred on the first day of its being
settled, within the first hour of the burst of such
enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was
to visit was before her. He had since heard her
express herself differently, —with other feelings,
more checkered feelings; he had heard her tell
Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret;
that she began to believe neither the friends nor
the pleasures she was going to were worth those
she left behind ; and that though she felt she must
go, and knew she should enjoy herself when once
away, she was already looking forward to being at
Mansfield again. Was there not a “yes” m all

this?

With such matters to ponder over and arrange
and re-arrange, Edmund could not, on his own

30

MANSFIELD PARK.

account, think very much of the evening which
the rest of the family were looking forward to
with a more equal degree of strong interest. In¬
dependent of his two cousins’ enjoyment in it, the
evening was to him of no higher value than any
other appointed meeting of the two families might
be. In every meeting there was a hope of receiv¬
ing further confirmation of Miss Crawford’s at¬
tachment; hut the whirl of a ball-room, perhaps,
was not particularly favorable to the excitement or
expression of serious feelings. To engage her
early for the two first dances was all the command
of individual happiness which he felt in his power,
and the only preparation for the hall which he
could enter into in spite of all that was passing
around him on the subject from morning till
night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on
Wednesday morning, Fanny, still unable to satisfy
herself as to what she ought to wear, determined
to seek counsel of the more enlightened, and apply
to Mrs. Grant and her sister, whose acknowledged
taste would certainly bear her blameless; and as
Edmund and William were gone to Northampton,
and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise
out, she walked down to the Parsonage without
much fear of wanting an opportunity for private
discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion
was a most important part of it to Fanny, being
more than half ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of
the Parsonage, just setting out to call on her; and
as it seemed to her that her friend, though obliged

MANSFIELD PARK.

31

to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose
her walk, she explained her business at once, and
observed that if she would he so kind as to give
her opinion, it might he all talked over as well
without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared
gratified by the application, and after a moment’s
thought urged Fanny’s returning with her in a
much more cordial manner than before, and proposed
their going up into her room, where they might
have a comfortable coze without disturbing Dr.
and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the draw¬
ing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny;
and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for
such ready and kind attention, they proceeded in¬
doors and upstairs, and were soon deep in the in¬
teresting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased by the
appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste,
made everything easy by her suggestions, and
tried to make everything agreeable by her en¬
couragement. The dress being settled in all its
grander parts, — “But what shall you have by
way of necklace?” said Miss Crawford. “Shall
not you wear your brother’s cross?” And as she
spoke she was undoing a small parcel which Fanny
bad observed in her hand when they met. Fanny
acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point;
she did not know how either to wear the cross or
to refrain from wearing it. She was answered by
having a small trinket-box placed before her, and
being requested to choose from among several gold
chains and necklaces. Such had been the paicel
with which Mass Crawford was provided, and such
the object of her intended visit; and in the kind*

32

MANSFIELD PARK.

est manner she now urged Fanny’s taking one for
the cross and to keep for her sake, saying every¬
thing she could think of to obviate the scruples
which were making Fanny start hack at first with
a look of horror at the proposal.

“You see what a collection I have,” said she, —
“more by half than I ever use or think of. I do
not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an
old necklace. You must forgive the liberty and
oblige me.”

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The
gift was too valuable. But Miss Crawford per¬
severed, and argued the case with so much affec¬
tionate earnestness through all the heads of
William and the cross and ^the hall and herself,
as to he finally successful. Fanny found herself
obliged to yield, that she might not he accused of
pride or indifference, or some other littleness; and
having with modest reluctance given her consent,
proceeded to make the selection. She looked and
looked, longing to know which might he least
valuable; and was determined in her choice at
last, by fancying there was one necklace more
frequently placed before her eyes than the rest.
It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny
would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain
as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fix¬
ing on this, to be choosing what Miss Crawford
least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her
perfect approbation ; and hastened to complete the
gift by putting the necklace round her, and mak¬
ing her see how well it looked. Fanny had not
a word to say against its becomingness, and ex-

“ Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation ”

Mansfield Park, II., 32

MANSFIELD PARK.

33

cepting what remained of her scruples, was exceed¬
ingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos.
She would rather perhaps have been obliged to
some other person. But this was an unworthy
feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants
with a kindness which proved her a real friend.
“When I wear this necklace I shall always think
of you,” said she, “and feel how very kind you
were.”

“You must think of somebody else, too, when
you wear that necklace,” replied Miss Crawford.
“'You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the
necklace I make over to you all the duty of re¬
membering the original giver. It is to be a
family remembrancer. The sister is not to he in
your mind without bringing the brother too.”

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion,
would have returned the present instantly. To
take what had been the gift of another person, —
of a brother too, — impossible ! — it must not he !
and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite
diverting to her companion, she laid down the
necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved
either to take another or none at all. Miss Craw¬
ford thought she had never seen a prettier con¬
sciousness. “ M!y dear child, said she, laughing,
“what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry
will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you
did not come honestly by it? or are you imagin¬
ing he would he too much flattered by seeing
round your lovely throat an ornament which his
money purchased three years ago, before he knew

VOL. II. - 3

34

MANSFIELD PARK.

there was such a throat in the world? or per¬
haps,” looking archly, “you suspect a confed¬
eracy between us, and that what I am now doing
is with his knowledge and at his desire? ”

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested
against such a thought.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, more
seriously, hut without at all believing her, “to
convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found
you, take the necklace, and say no more about it.
Its being a gift of my brother’s need not make the
smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure
you it makes none in my willingness to part with
it. He is always giving me something or other.
I have such innumerable presents from him that it
is quite impossible for me to value, or for him to
remember half. And as for this necklace, I do
not suppose I have worn it six times; it is very
pretty, — but I never think of it; and though you
would be most heartily welcome to any other in
my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the
very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather
part with and see in your possession than any
other. Say no more against it, I entreat you.
Such a trifle is not worth half so many words.”

Fanny dared not make any further opposition;
awl with renewed hut less happy thanks accepted
the necklace again, for there was an expression
in Miss Crawford’s eyes which she could not be
satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr.
Crawford s change of manners. She had long seen

MANSFIELD PARK.

35

it. He evidently tried to please her, — he was
gallant, — he was attentive, — he was something
like what he had been to her cousins : he wanted,
she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he
had cheated them; and whether he might not have
some concern in this necklace ! She could not be
convinced that he had not; for Miss Crawford,
complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman
and a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the
possession of what she had so much wished for did
not bring much satisfaction, she now walked home
again, — with a change rather than a diminution of
cares since her treading that path before.

CHAPTER III.

On reaching home Fanny went immediately up¬
stairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this
doubtful good of a necklace, in some favorite box
in the East room which held all her smaller treas¬
ures; but on opening the door, what was her sur¬
prise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at
the table! Such a sight, having never occurred
before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

“Fanny,” said he, directly, leaving his seat and
his pen, and meeting her with something in his
hand, “I beg your pardon for being here. I
came to look for you, and after waiting a little
while in hope of your coming in, was making use
of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will
find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can
now speak my business, which is merely to beg
your acceptance of this little trifle, — a chain for
William’s cross. You ought to have had it a week
ago; but there has been a delay from my brother’s
not £eing in town by several days so soon as I
expected; and I have only just now received it at
Northampton. I hope you will like the chain
itself, Fanny. I endeavored to consult the sim¬
plicity of^ your taste; but at any rate I know you
will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as

MANSFIELD PARK.

37

it really is, a token of tlie love of one of your
oldest friends.”

And so saying, lie was hurrying away, before
Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain
and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quick¬
ened by one sovereign wish, she then called out,
“ Oh, cousin, stop a moment, pray stop! ”

He turned hack.

“ I cannot attempt to thank you,” she continued
in a very agitated manner; “thanks are out of the
question. I feel much more than I can possibly
express. Your goodness in thinking of me in

such a way is beyond — ” „

“If this is all you have to say, Fanny —
smiling and turning away again. ^

“ No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the
parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing
before her, in all the niceness of jewellers’ packing,
a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she
could not help bursting forth again: “Oh, this
is beautiful, indeed! This is the very thing, pre¬
cisely what I wished for! This is the only orna¬
ment I have ever had a desire to possess. It m
exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be
worn together. It comes, too, m such an accept¬
able moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how
acceptable it is.

« My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great
deal too much. I am most happy that you like
the chain, and that it should be here m time for
to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond tie
occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure m he

38

MANSFIELD PARK.

world superior to that of contributing to yours.
Ho, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so com¬
plete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback.”

Upon such expressions of affection, Fanny could
have lived an hour without saying another word;
but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her
to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight
by saying, “But what is it that you want to con¬
sult me about? ”

It was about the necklace, which she was now
most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to
obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the
history of her recent visit, and now her raptures
might well be over; for Edmund was so struck
with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss
Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coinci¬
dence of conduct between them, that Fanny could
not but admit the superior power of one pleasure
over his own mind, though it might have its draw¬
back. It was some time before she could get his
attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand
of his opinion : he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of
praise ; but when he did awake and understand, he
was very decided in opposing what she wished.

“Return the necklace! Ho, my dear Fanny,
upon no account. It would be mortifying her
severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant
sensation than the having anything returned on
our hands, which we have given with a reasonable
hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend.
Why should she lose a pleasure which she has
shown herself so deserving of?

MANSFIELD PARK.

39

“If it had been given to me in the first in¬
stance,” said Fanny, “ I should not have thought
of returning it; but being her brother’s present,
is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not
part with it, when it is not wanted?”

< ‘ She must not suppose it not wanted, not ac¬
ceptable at least; and its having been originally
her brother’s gift makes no difference, for as she
was not prevented from offering, nor you from
taking it on that account, it ought not to affect
your keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than
mine, and fitter for a ball-room.”

“No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer
in its way, and for my purpose not half so fit.
The chain will agree with William’s cross beyond
all comparison better than the necklace.

“For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if
it be a sacrifice, — I am sure you will, upon con¬
sideration, make that sacrifice rather than gi'e
pain to one who has been so studious of your com¬
fort. Miss Crawford’s attentions to you have
been, not more than you were justly entitled to,

_ I am the last person to think that could be, —

but they have been invariable; and to be return¬
ing them with what must have something the air
of ingratitude, though I know it could never have
the meaning, is not in your nature, I am sure.
Wear the necklace, as you are engaged to do to¬
morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not
ordered with any reference to the ball, be kept for
commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would
not have the shadow of a coolness between the two
whose intimacy I have been observing with the

40

MANSFIELD PARK.

greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is
so much general resemblance in true generosity
and natural delicacy as to make the few slight
differences, resulting principally from situation,
no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship.
I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,”
he repeated, his voice sinking a little, “ between
the two dearest objects I have on earth.”

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained
to tranquillize herself as she could. She was one
of his two dearest, — that must support her. But
the other! — the first! She had never heard him
speak so openly before, and though it told her no
more than what she had long perceived, it was a
stab; for it told of his own convictions and views.
They were decided. He would marry Miss Craw¬
ford. It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing
expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again
and again that she was one of his two dearest,
before the words gave her any sensation. Could
she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it
would be — oh, how different it would be, how
far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her;
he gave her merits which she had not; her faults
were what they had ever been, but he saw them no
longer. Till she had shed many tears over this
deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
’and the dejection which followed could only be
relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his
happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her
duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive,
all that bordered on selfishness in her affection

MANSFIELD PARK.

41

for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a dis¬
appointment, would be a presumption; for which
she had not words strong enough to satisfy her
own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford
might be justified in thinking, would in her be
insanity. To her, he could be nothing under any
circumstances, — nothing dearer than a friend.
Why did such an idea occur to her, even enough
to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought not to
have touched on the confines of her imagination.
She would endeavor to be rational, and to deserve
the right of judging of Miss Crawford’s character
and the privilege' of true solicitude for him by a
sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was de¬
termined to do her duty; but having also many
of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not
be much wondered at, if, after making all these
.ood resolutions on the side of self-government
she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund
had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond
all her hopes, and reading with the tenderest emo¬
tion these words, “My very dear Fanny, you
must do me the favor to accept — ” locked it up
with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It
was the only thing approaching to a letter wine i
she had ever received from him; she might never
receive another; it was impossible that she ever
should receive another so perfectly gratifying in
the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized
had never fallen from the pen of the most dis¬
tinguished author, — never more completely blessed
the researches of the fondest biographer.

42

MANSFIELD PARK.

enthusiasm of a woman’s love is even beyond the
biographer’s. To her the handwriting itself, in¬
dependent of anything it may convey, is a blessed¬
ness. Never were such characters cut by any
other human being, as Edmund’s commonest hand¬
writing gave! This specimen, written in haste
as it was, had not a fault; and there was a feli¬
city in the flow of the first four words, in the ar¬
rangement of “My very dear Fanny,” which she
could have looked at forever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted
her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and
weakness, she was able in due time to go down
and resume her usual employments near her aunt
Bertram, and pay her the usual observances with¬
out any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment,
came, and opened with more kindness to Fanny
than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer; for soon after breakfast, a very friendly
note was brought from Mr. Crawford to'william,
stating that as he found himself obliged to go to
London on the morrow for a few days, he could
not help trying to procure a companion, and
therefore hoped that if William could make up
his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier
than had been proposed, he would accept a place
mvhis carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to be in
town by his uncle’s accustomary late dinner-hour,
and William was invited to dine with him at the
Admiral’s. The proposal was a very pleasant one
to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of trav¬
elling post with four horses and such a good-

MANSFIELD PARK.

43

humored, agreeable friend, and in likening it to
going up with despatches, was saying at once
everything in favor of its happiness and dignity
which his imagination could suggest; and Fanny,
from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased:
for the original plan was that William should go
up by the mail from Northampton the following
night, which would not have allowed him an
hour’s rest before he must have got into a Ports¬
mouth coach ; and though this offer of Mr. Craw¬
ford’s would rob her of many hours of his company,
she was too happy in having William spared from
the fatigue of such a journey, to think of any¬
thing else. Sir Thomas approved of it for another
reason. His nephew’s introduction to Admiral
Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he
believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it was a
very joyous note. Fanny’s spirits lived on it half
the morning, deriving some accession of pleasure
from its writer being himself to go away.

As for the ball so near at hand, she had too
many agitations and fears to have half the enjoy¬
ment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
or must have been supposed to have, by the many
young ladies looking forward to the same event in
situations more at ease, but under circumstances
of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar gratifi¬
cation than would be attributed to her. Miss
Price, known only by name to half the people in¬
vited, was now to make her first appearance, and
must be regarded as the Queen of the evening.
Who could be happier than Miss Price? Put
Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade

44

MANSFIELD PARK.

of coming out ; and had she known in what light
this ball was, in general, considered respecting
her, it would very much have lessened her comfort
hy increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without
much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to
have strength and partners for about half the even¬
ing, to dance a little with Edmund and not a
great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William en¬
joy himself, and he able to keep away from her
aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and
seemed to comprehend her greatest possibility of
happiness. As these were the best of her hopes,
they could not always prevail; and in the course
of a long morning, spent principally with her two
aunts, she was often under the influence of much
less sanguine views. William, determined to
make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment,
was out snipe shooting; Edmund, she had too
much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage;
and left alone to hear the worrying of Mrs. Norris,
who was cross because the housekeeper would have
her own way with the supper, and whom she could
not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny
was worn down at last to think everything an evil
belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a
parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards
her own room and felt as incapable of happiness
as if she had been allowed no share in it.

As she walked slowly upstairs, she thought of
yesterday; it had been about the same hour that
she had returned from the Parsonage, and found
Edmund in the East room. “ Suppose I were to

MANSFIELD PARK.

45

find him there again to-day! ” said she to herself,
in a fond indulgence of fancy.

“ Fanny,” said a voice at that moment near her.
Starting and looking up, she saw across the lobby
she had just reached Edmund himself, standing at
the head of a different staircase. He came to¬
wards her. “You look tired and fagged, Fanny.
You have been walking too far.”

“ No, I have not been out at all.”

“Then you have had fatigues within doors,
which are worse. You had better have gone
out.”

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest
to make no answer; and though he looked at her
with his usual kindness, she believed he had soon
ceased to think of her countenance. He did not
appear in spirits; something unconnected with
her was probably amiss. J-hey proceeded upstairs
together, their rooms being on the same floor
above.

“ I come from Dr. Grant’s,” said Edmund,
presently. “You may guess my errand there,
Fanny.” And he looked so conscious that Fanny
could think but of one errand, which turned her
too sick for speech. £<I wished to engage Miss
Crawford for the two first dances,” was the expla¬
nation that followed, and brought Fanny to life
again, enabling her, as she found she was expected
to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to
the result.

“Yes,” he answered, “she is engaged tome;
but ” with a smile that did not sit easy, “ she says
it is to be the last time that she ever will dance

46

MANSFIELD PARK.

with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I
am sure she is not serious, — but I would rather
not hear it. She never has danced with a clergy¬
man, she says, and she never will. For my own
sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at
— I mean not this very week, this very day, —
to-morrow I leave home.”

Fanny struggled for speech, and said: “I am
very sorry that anything has occurred to distress
you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My
uncle meant it so.”

“ Oh, yes, yes, and it will be a day of pleasure.
It will all end right. I am only vexed for a
moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the
ball as ill-timed, — what does it signify? But,
Fanny,” stopping her, by taking her hand, and
speaking low and seriously, “you know what all
this means. You see how it is, and could tell
me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how and
why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained
by her manner this morning, and cannot get the
better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet
and faultless as your own; but the influence of her
former companions makes her seem, gives to her
conversation, to her professed opinions, sometimes
a tinge of wrong. She does not think evil, but
she speaks it, — speaks it in playfulness, — and
tl 'Lugh I know it to be playfulness, it grieves me
to the soul.”

The effect of education,” said Fanny, gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. “Yes, that
uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest

MANSFIELD PARK

47

mind! — for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it
does appear more than manner; it appears as if
the mind itself was tainted.”

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her
judgment, and therefore, after a moment’s consid¬
eration, said: “If you only want me as a listener,
cousin, I will he as useful as I can ; hut I am not
qualified for an adviser. Do not ask advice of me ;
I am not competent.”

“You are right, Fanny, to protest against such
an office, hut you need not he afraid. It is a sub¬
ject on which I should never ask advice; it is the
sort of subject on which it had better never be
asked; and few, I imagine, do ask it, but when
they want to be influenced against their conscience.
I only want to talk to you.”

“One thing more. Excuse the liberty, — but
take care how you talk to me. Do not tell me
anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry
for. The time may come — ”

The color rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

“Dearest Fanny! ” cried Edmund, pressing her
hand to his lips with almost as much warmth as
if it had been Miss Crawford’s, “you are all con¬
siderate thought; but it is unnecessary here. The
time will never come. No such time as you allude
to will ever come. I begin to think it most im¬
probable; the chances grow less and less: and
even if it should, there will be nothing to be
remembered by either you or me that we need be
afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own
scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by
changes that will only raise her character the more

48

MANSFIELD PARK.

by the recollection of the faults she once had.
You are the only being upon earth to whom I
should say what I have said ; but you have always
known my opinion of her; you can bear me wit¬
ness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded.
How many a time have we talked over her little
errors! You need not fear me. I have almost
given up every serious idea of her; but I must be
a blockhead indeed if, whatever befell me, I could
think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude. ’ ’

He had said enough to shake the experience of
eighteen. He had said enough to give Fanny
some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look she answered: “Yes,
cousin, I am convinced that you would be incapa¬
ble of anything else, though perhaps some might
not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you
wish to say. Do not check yourself. Tell me
whatever you like.”

They were now on the second floor, and the
appearance of a housemaid prevented any further
conversation. For Fanny’s present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had
he been able to talk another five minutes, there is
no saying that he might not have talked away all
Miss Crawford’s faults and his own despondence.
But as it was, they parted with looks on his side
of grateful affection, and with some very precious
sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it
for hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford’s
note to William had worn away, she had been in
a state absolutely the reverse; there had been no

MANSFIELD PARK.

49

comfort around, no hope within her. How, every¬
thing was smiling. William’s good fortune re¬
turned again upon her mind, and seemed of greater
value than at first. The ball, too, — such an even¬
ing of pleasure before her! It was now a real
animation; and she began to dress for it with
much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball.
All went well, — she did not dislike her own
looks ; and when she came to the necklaces again,
her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial
the one given her by Miss Crawford would by no
means go through the ring of the cross. She had,
to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it ; but it was
too large for the purpose. His, therefore, must
be worn; and having, with delightful feelings,
joined the chain and the cross, — those memorials
of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest
tokens so formed for each other by everything real
and imaginary, — and put them round her neck,
and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund
they were, she was able, without an effort, to re¬
solve on wearing Miss Crawford’s necklace too.
She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford
had a claim; and when it was no longer to en¬
croach on, to interfere with the stronger claims,
the truer kindness of another, she could do her
justice even with pleasure to herself. The neck¬
lace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and
all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this
occasion with an unusual degree of wakefulness.
It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that

VOL. II. — 4

50

MANSFIELD PARK-

Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of bet¬
ter help than the upper housemaid’s; and when
dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to
assist her, — too late, of course, to be of any use.
Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor,
when Miss Price came out of her room completely
dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but
Fanny felt her aunt’s attention almost as much
as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do
themselves.

v

CHAPTER IY.

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the draw¬
ing-room when Fanny went down. To the former
she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance,
and her being in remarkably good looks. The
neatness and propriety of her dress was all that he
would allow himself to commend in her presence,
but upon her leaving the room again soon after¬
wards, he spoke of her beauty with very decided
praise.

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “she looks very
well. I sent Chapman to her.”

.“Look well! Oh, yes,” cried Mrs. Norris,
“she has good reason to look well with all her
advantages; brought up in this family as she has
been, with all the benefit of her cousins’ manners
before her. Only think, my dear Sir Ihomas,
what extraordinary advantages you and I have
been the means of giving her. The very gown
you have been taking notice of is your own gener¬
ous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth mar¬
ried. What would she have been if we had not

taken her by the hand?

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat
down to table, the eyes of the two young men as¬
sured him that the subject might be gently touched

52

' MANSFIELD PARK.

again when the ladies withdrew, with more success.
Fanny saw that she was approved; and the con¬
sciousness of looking well made her look still bet¬
ter. From a variety of causes she was happy, and
she was soon made still happier; for in following
her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was hold-
ing open the door, said, as she passed him, “ You
must dance with me, Fanny; you must keep two
dances for me, — any two that you like, except the
first.” She had nothing more to wish for. She
had hardly ever been in a state so nearly approach¬
ing high spirits in her life. Her cousins’ former
gayety on the day of a ball was no longer surpris¬
ing to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming,
and was actually practising her steps about the
drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the
notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken
up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the
noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed, that would have been at
least languid under any other circumstances, but
Fanny’s happiness still prevailed. It was but to
think of her conversation with Edmund; and what
was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris, what were the
yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after be¬
gan the sweet expectation of a carriage, when a
general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed dif¬
fused, and they all stood about and talked and
laughed, and every moment had its pleasure and
its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund’s cheerfulness, but it was delightful to
see the effort so successfully made.

MANSFIELD PARK.

53

When the carriages were really heard, when the
guests began really to assemble, her own gayety of
heart was much subdued; the sight of so many
strangers threw her back into herself ; and besides
the gravity and formality of the first great circle,
which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady
Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found her¬
self occasionally called on to endure something
worse. She was introduced here and there by her
uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to couitesy,
and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she
was never summoned to it without looking at
William, as he walked about at his ease in the
background of the scene, and longing to be with
him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was
a favorable epoch. The stiffness of the meeting
soon gave way before their popular manners and
more diffused intimacies; little groups were
formed, and everybody grew comfortable. Fanny
felt the advantage; and drawing back from the
toils of civility, would have been again most happy,
could she have kept her eyes from wandering be¬
tween Edmund and Mary Crawford. She looked
all loveliness, — and what might not be the end of
it? Her own musings were brought to an end
on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her
thoughts were put into another channel by his
engaging her almost instantly for the two iiist
dances. Her happiness on this occasion was veiy
much a la mortal, finely checkered. To be secure
of a partner at first was a most essential good,
for the moment of beginning was now growing

54

MANSFIELD PARK.

seriously near; and she so little understood her
own claims as to think that if Mr. Crawford had
not asked her, she must have been the last to be
sought after, and should have received a partner-
only through a series of inquiry and hustle and
interference, which would have been terrible; hut
at the same time there was a pointedness in his
manner of asking her which she did not like, and
she saw his eye glancing for a moment at her neck¬
lace, with a smile — she thought there was a
smile — which made her blush and feel wretched.
And though there was no second glance to disturb
her, though his object seemed then to he only
quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of
her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the
idea of his perceiving it, and had no composure till
he turned away to some one else. Then she could
gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of
having a partner, a voluntary partner secured
against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ball¬
room she found herself for the first time near Miss
Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were immediately
and more unequivocally directed as her brother’s
had been, and who was beginning to speak on the
subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story
over, hastened to give the explanation of the
second necklace, — the real chain. Miss Crawford
listened; and all her intended compliments and
insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt
only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they had
been before, showing they could yet he brighter,
she exclaimed with eager pleasure, “Did he? Did

MANSFIELD PARK.

55

Edmund? That was like himself. dSTo other man
would have thought of it. I honor him beyond
expression.” And she looked around as if longing
to tell him so. He was not near, he was attending
a party of ladies out of the room ; and Mrs. Grant
coming up to the two girls and taking an arm of
each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny’s heart sunk, hut there was no leisure for
thinking long even of Miss Crawford’s feelings.
They were in the ball-room, the violins were play¬
ing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its
fixing on anything serious. She must watch the
general arrangements, and see how everything was
done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and
asked if she were engaged ; and the ‘Yes, sir, to
Mr. Crawford,’ was exactly what he had intended
to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off ; Sir
Thomas brought him to her, saying something
which discovered to Fanny that she was to lead the
way and open the ball, — an idea that had never oc¬
curred to her before. IVhenever she had thought
on the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a
matter of course that Edmund would begin with
Miss Crawford; and the impression was so strong
that though her uncle spoke the contrary, she could
not help an exclamation of suprise, a hint of her
unfitness, an entreaty even to be excused. To be
urging her opinion against Sir Thomas’s was a
proof of the extremity of the case; but such was
her horror at the first suggestion that she could
actually look him in the face and say she hoped it
might be settled otherwise; in vain, however. Sir

56

MANSFIELD PARK.

Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then
looked too serious, and said too decidedly, “It
must he so, my dear,” for her to hazard another
word; and she found herself the next moment con¬
ducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and
standing there to be joined by the rest of the
dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.
She could hardly believe it. To be placed above
so many elegant young women! The distinction
was too great. It was treating her like her cousins !
And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with
most unfeigned and truly tender regret that they
were not at home to take their own place in the
room, and have their share of a pleasure which would
have been so very delightful to them. So often as
she had heard them wish for a ball at home as the
greatest of all felicities ! And to have them away
when it was given — and for her to be opening the
ball — and with Mr. Crawford too ! She hoped
they would not envy her that distinction now; but
when she looked back to the state of things in the
autumn, to what they had all been to each other
when once dancing m that house before, the present
arrangement was almost more than she could under¬
stand herself,

x The ball began, It was rather honor than hap¬
piness to Fanny, for the first dance at least : her
partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to impart
them to her; but she was a great deal too much
frightened to have any enjoyment, till she could
suppose herself no longer looked at. Young, pretty,
and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that
were not as good as graces, and there were few per-

MANSFIELD PARK.

57

sons present that were not disposed to praise her.
She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir
Thomas’s niece, and she was soon said to he admired
by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to give her gen¬
eral favor. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much compla¬
cency: he was proud of his niece; and without
attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris
seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield,
he was pleased with himself for having supplied
everything else, education and manners she owed
to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts
as he stood; and having, in spite of all his wrongs
towards her, a general prevailing desire of recom¬
mending herself to him, took an opportunity of
stepping aside to say something agreeable of Fanny.
Her praise was warm, and he received it as she
could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow,
and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the
subject than his lady did, soon afterwards, when
Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned
round before she began to dance, to compliment her
on Miss Price’s looks.

“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Ber¬
tram’s placid reply. “Chapman helped her dress. I
sent Chapman to her.” Not but that she was really
pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so
much more struck with her own kindness in send¬
ing Chapman to her that she could not get it out
of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to

58

MANSFIELD PAKK.

think of gratifying her by commendation of Fanny ;
to her it was as the occasion offered “ Ah, ma’am,
how much we want dear Mrs. Bushworth and Julia
to-night! ” and Mrs. Norris paid her with as many
smiles and courteous words as she had time for,
amid so much occupation as she found for herself
in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir
Thomas, and trying to move all the chaperons to a
better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny
herself in her intentions to please. She meant to
be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and fill¬
ing her with sensations of delightful self-conse¬
quence; and misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes, still
thought she must be doing so, when she went to
her after the two first dances, and said with a sig¬
nificant look: “Perhaps you can tell me why my
brother goes to town to-morrow? He says he has
business there, but will not tell me what. The
first time he ever denied me his confidence! But
this is what we all come to. All are supplanted
sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for in¬
formation. Pray, what is Henry going for? ”

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her
embarrassment allowed.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laugh¬
ing, “I must suppose it to be purely for the
pleasure of conveying your brother, and talking
of you by the way.”

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of
discontent; while Miss Crawford wondered she
did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or
thought her odd, or thought her anything rather

MANSFIELD PARK.

59

than insensible of pleasure in Henry’s attentions.
Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course
of the evening; hut Henry’s attentions had very
little to do with it. She would much rather not
have been asked by him again so very soon, and
she wished she had not been obliged to suspect
that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris about
the supper-hour were all for the sake of securing
her at that part of the evening. But it was not to
be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object
of all; though she could not say that it was un¬
pleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or osten¬
tation in his manner, — and sometimes, when be
talked of William, he was really not unagreeable,
and showed even a warmth of heart which did him
credit. But still his attentions made no part of
her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she
looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was
enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she
could walk about with him and hear his account of
his partners; she was happy in knowing herself
admired; and she was happy in having the two
dances with Edmund still to look forward to, dur¬
ing the greatest part of the evening, her hand
being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with him was in continual perspec¬
tive. She was happy even when they did take
place- but not from any flow of spirits on his side,
or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had
tiered the morning. His mind was fogged, and
her happiness sprung from being the friend with
whom it could find repose. “ 1 am worn out with
civility,” said he. “I have been talking mces-

60

MANSFIELD PARK.

santly all night, and with nothing to say. But
with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will
not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury
of silence.” Fanny would hardly even speak her
agreement. A weariness, arising probably in
great measure from the same feelings which he
had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected; and they went down their two
dances together with such sober tranquillity as
might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had
been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleas¬
ure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits when
they first danced together, but it was not her
gayety that could do him good; it rather sank
than raised his comfort; and afterwards — for he

found himself still impelled to seek her again _ she

had absolutely pained him by her manner of speak¬
ing of the profession to which he was now on the
point of belonging. They had talked and they had
been silent, he had reasoned, she had ridiculed,
and they had parted at last with mutual vexa¬
tion. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from ob¬
serving them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Ed¬
mund was suffering; yet some happiness must and

would arise from the very conviction that he did
suffer.

. When 1l0r two dances with him were over, her
inclination and strength for more were pretty well
at an end; and Sir Thomas having seen her rather
walk than dance down the shortening set, breath¬
less, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders

MANSFIELD PARK.

61

for her sitting down entirely. From that time
Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a
moment to visit her, and working away his part¬
ner’s fan as if for life, — “how soon she is knocked
up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope
we shall keep it up these two hours. How can

you be tired so soon?”

a go soon! my good friend,” said Sir ihomas,
producing his watch with all necessary caution,
“it is three o’clock, and your sister is not used to
these sort of hours.”

“ Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to¬
morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and
never mind me.”

“Oh, William.”

“ What! Did she think of being up before you

set off? ” . f

“Oh, yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from

her seat to be nearer her uncle; “ I must get up
and breakfast with him. It will be the last time,

you know, the last morning.

a You had better not. He is to have break¬
fasted and be gone by half-past nine. —Mr. Craw
ford, I think you call for hun at half-past nine.

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too
many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended m
a gracious “Well, well,” which was permissiom
“Yes, half-past nine,” said Crawford to Wil¬
liam, as the latter was leaving them; “and I sha
be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get
un for me.” And in a lower tone to Fanny .
shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your

62

MANSFIELD PARK.

brother will find my ideas of time and his own very
different to-morrow.’ ;

After a short consideration Sir Thomas asked
Crawford to join the early breakfast-party in that
house instead of eating alone : he should himself
be of it; and the readiness with which his invita¬
tion was accepted convinced him that the suspi¬
cions whence, he must confess to himself, this very
ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded.
Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a
pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece,
meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just
done. She had hoped to have William all to her¬
self, the last morning. It would have been an un¬
speakable indulgence. But though her wishes
were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmur¬
ing within her. On the contrary, she was so to¬
tally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to
have anything take place at all in the way she could
desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and
rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to
repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterwards Sir Thomas was again in¬
terfering a little with her inclination, by advising
her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his
vord ; but it was the advice of absolute power, and
she had only to rise and, with Mr. Crawford’s very
cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the
entrance door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall,
“ one moment and no more,” to view the happy
scene, and take a last look at the five or six deter¬
mined couple, who were still hard at work, and
then creeping slowly up the principal staircase.

MANSFIELD PARK.

63

pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish
with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed
and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling,
in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed
delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps
might not be thinking merely of her health. It
might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
sitting by her long enough, or he might mean
to recommend her as a wife by showing her
persuadableness.

CHAPTER V.

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon
'over too; the last kiss was given, and William was
gone. Mr. Crawford bad, as be foretold, been
very punctual ; and short and pleasant had been
the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny
walked back into the breakfast-room with a very
saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry
in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted
chair of each young man might exercise her tender
enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold-pork bones
and mustard in William’s plate might but divide
her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr.
Crawford’s. She sat and cried con amove, as her
uncle intended, hut it was con amove fraternal and
no other. William was gone, and she now felt as
if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and
selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny’s disposition was such that she could
never even think of her aunt Norris, in the mea¬
greness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want
of attention to her when they had been last to¬
gether; much less could her feelings acquit her
of having done and said and thought everything

MANSFIELD PARK.

65

by William that was due to bim for a whole
fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after
the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-by
for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterbor¬
ough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained
of last night but remembrances, which she had
nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Ber¬
tram, — she must talk to somebody of the ball; but
her aunt had seen so little of what had passed,
and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.
Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody’s dress
or anybody’s place at supper but her own.

“She could not recollect what it was that she
had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or
what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in
Fanny : she was not sure whether Colonel Har¬
rison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of
William, when he said he was the finest young
man in the room ; somebody had whispered some¬
thing to her, — she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas
what it could be.” And these were her longest
speeches and clearest communications ; the rest
was only a languid “ Yes — yes — very well — did
you? did he? — I did not see that — I should not
know one from the other.” This was very bad.
It was only better than Mrs. Norris’s sharp an¬
swers would have been; but she being gone home
with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick
maid, there was peace and good humor in their lit¬
tle party, though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. “I
cannot think what is the matter with me,” said
von. ix. — 5

66

MANSFIELD PARK.

Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed.
“I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so
late last night. Fanny, you must do something
to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the
cards, — I feel so very stupid.”

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at
cribhage with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir
Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds
were heard in the room for the next two hours
beyond the reckonings of the game: “And
that makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight
in crib. You are to deal, ma’am; shall I deal
for you? ” Fanny thought and thought again of
the difference which twenty-four hours had made
in that room, and all that part of the house. Last
night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and
motion, noise and brilliancy in the drawing-room
and out of the drawing-room and everywhere.
Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She
could think of William the next day more cheer¬
fully ; and as the morning afforded her an oppor¬
tunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs.
Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome
style, with all the heightenings of imagination
and all the laughs of playfulness which are so
essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could
afterwards bring her mind without much effort
into its every-day state, and easily conform to the
tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had
ever known there for a wdiole day together, and
he was gone on whom the comfort and cheerful

MANSFIELD PAEIt.

67

ness of every family-meeting and every meal
chiefly depended. But this must he learned to be
endured. He would soon be always gone; and she
was thankful that she could now sit in the same
room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his
questions, and even answer them without such
wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

“We miss our two young men,” was Sir
Thomas’s observation on both the first and second
day, as they formed their very reduced circle
after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s
swimming eyes nothing more was said on the
first day than to drink their good health, but on
the second it led to something further. William
was kindly commended, and his promotion hoped
for. “ And there is no reason to suppose,” added
Sir Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be
tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn
to do without him. This will be the last winter
of his belonging to us as he has done.” _

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram; “but I wish be
was not going away. They are all going away,

I think. I wish they would stay at home.

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who
had just applied for permission to go to town wit 1
Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each
daughter that the permission should be granted,
Lady Bertram, though in her own good-nature s ie
would not have prevented it, was lamenting ie
change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return,
which would otherwise have taken place about this
time. A great deal of good sense followed on bir
Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to

68

MANSFIELD PARK.

the arrangement. Everything that a considerate
parent ought to feel was advanced for her use ; and
everything that an affectionate mother must feel
in promoting her children’s enjoyment was attri¬
buted to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it
all with a calm “Yes;” and at the end of a
quarter of an hour’s silent consideration spon¬
taneously observed, “Sir Thomas, I have been
thinking — and I am very glad we took Fanny as
we did, for now the others are away we feel the
good of it.”

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compli¬
ment by adding: “Very true. We show Fanny
what a good girl we think her by praising her to
her face, — she is now a very valuable companion.
If we have been kind to her, she is now quite as
necessary to us.”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, presently; “and
it is a comfort to think that we shall always have
her.”

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his
niece, and then gravely replied: “ She will never
leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home
that may reasonably promise her greater happiness
than she knows here. ’ ’

“And that is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas,
mo should invite her? Maria might be very
glad to see her ar Sotherton now and then, but she
would not think of asking her to live there — and
I am sure she is better off here — and besides I
cannot do without her,”

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably
at the great house in Mansfield had a very differ-

MANSFIELD PARK.

69

ent character at the Parsonage. To tlie young
lady at least in each family it brought very differ
ent feelings. What was tranquillity and condor*
to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary.
Something arose from difference of disposition and
habit, — one so easily satisfied, the other so unused
to endure; but still more might be imputed to dif¬
ference of circumstances. In some points of in¬
terest they were exactly opposed to each other.
To Fanny’s mind, Edmund’s absence was really in
its cause and its tendency a relief. To Mary it
was every way painful. She felt the want of his
society every day, almost every hour, and was too
much in want of it to derive anything but irrita¬
tion from considering the object for which he
went. He could not have devised anything more
likely to raise his consequence than this week’s
absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her
brother’s going away, of William Price’s going
too, and completing the sort of general break-up
of a party which had been so animated. She felt
it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, con¬
fined within doors by a series of rain and snow,
with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.
Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to
his own notions, and acting on them in defiance
of her (and she had been so angry that they had
hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not
help thinking of him continually when absent,
dwelling oil his merit and affection, and longing
again for the almost daily meetings they lately had.
His absence was unnecessarily long. He should
not have planned such an absence, he should no».

70

MANSFIELD PARK.

have left home for a week, when her own departure
from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to
blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so
warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid
she had used some strong, some contemptuous
expressions in speaking of the clergy; and that
should not have been. It was ill-bred, — it was
wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all
her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All
this was bad; but she had still more to feel when
Friday came round again and brought no Edmund,
when Saturday came and still no Edmund, and
when, through the slight communication with
the other family which Sunday produced, she
learned that he had actually written home to defer
liis return, having promised to remain some days
longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before, _

if she had been sorry for what she said and feared
its too strong effect on him, —she now felt and
feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to
contend with one disagreeable emotion entirely
new to her, — jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had
sisters, — he might find them attractive. But at
any rate his staying away at a time when, accord¬
ing to all preceding plans, she was to remove to
^London, meant something that she could not bear.
Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the
end of three or four days, she should now have
been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely
necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn
something more. She could not live any longer

MANSFIELD FARK.

71

in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her
way to the Park, through difficulties of walking
which she had deemed unconquerable a week be¬
fore, for the chance of hearing a little in addition,
for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost; for Fanny and Lady
Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny
to herself she could hope for nothing. But at last
Lady Bertram left the room ; and then almost im¬
mediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice
as well regulated as she could: “And how do
you like your cousin Edmund’s staying away so
long? Being the only young person at home, I
consider you as the greatest sufferer. You must
miss him. Does his staying longer surprise
you?”

“I do not know,” said Fanny, hesitatingly.
u Yes _ I had not particularly expected it.”

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he
talks of. It is the general way all young men
do.”

“He did not, the only time he went to see Mr.
Owen before.”

“He finds the house more agreeable now. He
is a very — a very pleasing young man himself,
and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
seeing him again before I go to London, as will
now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking for
Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I
should like to have seen him once more, I confess.
But you must give my compliments to him. Yes,
_ I think it must be compliments. Is there not

72

MANSFIELD PARK.

a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language,

_ a something between compliments and — and

joye — to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we
have had together? So many months’ acquaint¬
ance! But compliments may be sufficient here.
Was his letter a long one? Does he give you
nuch account of what he is doing? Is it Christ¬
mas gayeties that he is staying for?

“ I only heard a part of the letter: it was to my
uncle, but I believe it was very short; indeed I
rra sure it was but a few lines. _A.11 that I heard
was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer,
and that he had agreed to do so. A few days
longer, or some days longer, I am not quite sure
which.”

“ Oh, if he wrote to his father — but I thought
:',t might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But
>{ he wrote to his father, no wonder he was con¬
cise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If
he had written to you, there would have been more
particulars. You would have heard of balls and
parties. He would have sent you a description of
everything and everybody. How many Miss
Owens are there? ”

“Three grown up.”

“Are they musical? ”

“I do not at all know. I never heard.”

“That is the first question, you know,” said
Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and uncon¬
cerned, ‘ ‘ which every woman who plays herself is
sure to ask another. But it is very foolish to ask
questions about any young ladies, — about any
three sisters just grown up; for one knows with-

MANSFIELD PARK.

73

out being told exactly wliat they are, — all very
accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty.
There is a beauty in every family, — it is a regular
thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on
the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they
were taught, or sing all the better for not being
taught, or something like it.”

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said
Fanny, calmly.

“You know nothing and you care less, as people
say. Never did tone express indifference plainer.
Indeed, how can one care for those one has never
seen? Well, when your cousin comes back he
will find Mansfield very quiet, — all the noisy
ones gone, your brother and mine and myself.

I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now
the time draws near. She does not like my
going.”

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “ You cannot
doubt your being missed by many,” said she.
“You will be very much missed.”

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if
wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly
said: “Oh, yes, missed as every noisy evil is
missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a
o-reat difference felt. But I am not fishing, t on
compliment me. If I am missed, it will appear.
I may be discovered by those who want to see me.
I shall not be in any doubtful or distant or unap¬
proachable region.’

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and
Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had
hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her

74

MANSFIELD PARK.

power, from one who she thought must know; and
her spirits were clouded again.

“The Miss Owens, ” said she, soon after¬
wards, — “suppose you were to have one of the
Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should
you like it? Stranger things have happened. I
dare say they are trying for it. And they are
quite in the right, for it would he a very pretty
establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or
blame them. It is everybody’s duty to do as well
for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram’s
son is somebody; and now he is in their own line.
Their father is a clergyman and their brother is a
clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property, he fairly belongs to
them. You don’t speak, Fanny — Miss Price —
you don’t speak. But honestly now, do not you
rather expect it than otherwise ?”

“Ho,” said Fanny, stoutly, “I do not expect it
at all.”

“Hot at all! ” cried Miss Crawford, with alac¬
rity. “I wonder at that. But I dare say you
know exactly — I always imagine you are — per¬
haps you do not think him likely to marry at all
— or not at present.”

“Ho, I do not,” said Fanny, softly, hoping she
did not err either in the belief or the acknowledg¬
ment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gath¬
ering greater spirit from the blush soon produced
from such a look, only said, “ He is best off as he
is,” and turned the subject.

CHAPTER YT.

Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened
by this conversation, and she walked home again
in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same had
weather, had they been put to the proof; but as
that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite or more than quite his
usual cheerfulness, she had nothing further to try
her own. His still refusing to tell her what he
had gone for was but the promotion of gayety;
a day before it might have irritated, but now
it was a pleasant joke, — suspected only of con¬
cealing something planned as a pleasant surprise
to herself. And the next day did bring a surprise
to her. Henry had said he should just go and ask
the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten
minutes, — but he was gone above an hour; and
when his sister, who had been waiting for him to
walk with her in the garden, met him at last most
impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, “My
dear Henry, where can you possibly have been all
this time? ” he had only to say that he had been
sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny.

“Sitting with them an hour and a half! ” ex¬
claimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise

76

MANSFIELD PARK.

u Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within
his, and walking along the sweep as if not know¬
ing where he was, “I could not get away sooner,
— Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite deter¬
mined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up.
Will it astonish you? No; jmu must he aware
that I am quite determined to marry Fanny
Price.”

The surprise was now complete ; for in sjnte of
whatever his consciousness might suggest, a sus¬
picion of his having any such views had never
entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so
truly the astonishment she felt that he was obliged
to repeat what he had said, and more fully and
more solemnly. The conviction of his determina¬
tion once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There
was even pleasure with the surprise. Mary was
m a state of mind to rejoice in a connection with
the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with
her brother’s marrying a little beneath him.

Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assur¬
ance; “ I am fairly caught. You know with
what idle designs I began — but this is the end of
them. I have (I flatter myself) made no incon¬
siderable progress in her affections; but my own
are entirely fixed.”

“ Lucky, lucky girl!” cried Mary as soon as
she could speak; “what a match for her! My
dearest Henry, this must be my first feeling; but
my second, which you shall have as sincerely, is
that I approve your choice from my soul, and fore¬
see your happiness as heartily as I wish and desire

*0U Wl11 W a sweet little wife, — all gratb

MANSFIELD PARK.

77

tude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve.
What an amazing match for her! Mrs. Norris
often talks of her luck; what will she say now?
The delight of all the family, indeed! And she
has some true friends in it. How they will re¬
joice! But tell me ail about it. Talk to me for¬
ever. When did you begin to think seriously
about her? ”

Nothing could he more impossible than to answer
such a question, though nothing he more agreeable
than to have it asked. “ How the pleasing plague
had stolen on him ’ ’ he could not say ; and before
he had expressed the same sentiment with a little
variation of words three times over, his sister
eagerly interrupted him with: “Ah, my dear
Henry, and this is what took you to London!
This was your business! You chose to consult
the Admiral, before you made up your mind.”

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle
too well to consult him on any matrimonial
scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought
it never pardonable in a young man of independent
fortune.

“When Fanny is known to him,” continued
Henry, “he will dote on her. She is exactly the
woman to do away every prejudice of such a man
as the Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman
as he thinks does not exist in the world, ^he is
the very impossibility he would describe, — if in¬
deed he has now delicacy of language enough to
embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely
settled, — settled beyond all interference, — he
shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you

78

MANSFIELD PARK.

are quite mistaken. You have not discovered
my business yet.”

“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to
whom it must relate, and am in no hurry for the
rest. Fanny Price, — wonderful, - — quite wonder¬
ful! That Mansfield should have done so much
for — that you should have found your fate in
Mansfield! But you are quite right, you could not
have chosen better. There is not a better girl in
the world, and you do not want for fortune; and
as to her connections, they are more than good.
The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first
people in this country. She is niece to Sir
Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the
world. But go on, go on. Tell me more. What
are your plans? Does she know her own happi¬
ness ? ”

“No.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“For — for very little more than opportunity.
Mary, she is not like her cousins; but I think I
shall not ask in vain.”

“ Oh, no, you cannot. Were you even less
pleasing, supposing her not to love you already
(of which, however, I can have little doubt),
you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude
of her disposition would secure her all your own
immediately. From my soul I do not think she
would marry you without love, — that is, if there is
a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced
by ambition, I can suppose it her; hut ask her to
love you, and she will never have the heart to
refuse.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

79

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence,
he was as happy to tell as she could be to listen;
and a conversation followed almost as deeply inter¬
esting to her as to himself, though he had in fact
nothing to relate hut his own sensations, nothing
to dwell on hut Fanny’s charms. Fanny’s beauty
of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and
goodness of heart were the exhaustless theme.
The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her
character were warmly expatiated on, — that sweet¬
ness which makes so essential a part of every
woman’s worth in the judgment of man, that
though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can
never believe it absent. Her temper he had good
reason to depend on and to praise. He had often
seen it tried. Was there one of the family, ex¬
cepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other
continually exercised her patience and forbearance?
Her affections were evidently strong. To see her
with her brother! What could more delightfully
prove that the warmth of her heart was equal to
its gentleness? What could be more encouraging
to a man who had her love in view? Then, her
understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick
and clear; and her manners were the mirror of her
own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all.
Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel
the worth of good principles in a wife, though he
was too little accustomed to serious reflection to
know them by their proper name; but when he
talked of her having such a steadiness and regu¬
larity of conduct, such a high notion of honor, and
such an observance of decorum as might warrant

80

MANSFIELD PARK.

any man in the fullest dependence on her faith
and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by
the knowledge of her being well principled and
religious.

“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in
her,” said he, “and that is what I want.”

Well might his sister, believing as she really
did that his opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely
beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the
more am I convinced that you are doing quite
right; and though I should never have selected
Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you,
I am now persuaded she is the very one to make
you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace
turns out a clever thought indeed. You will both
find your good in it.”

“It was bad, very bad in me against such a
creature; but I did not know her then. And she
shall have no reason to lament the hour that first
put it into my head. I will make her very happy,
Mary, happier than she has ever yet been herself,
or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her
from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham,
and rent a place in this neighborhood; perhaps
Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years’ lease of
Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at
naif a word. I could name three people now, who
would give me my own terms and thank me. ”

“Ha!” cried Mary; “settle in Northampton¬
shire! That is pleasant! Then we shall be all
together.”

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself,

MANSFIELD PARK.

81

and wished it unsaid : but there was no need of
confusion ; for her brother saw her only as the sup¬
posed inmate of Mansfield Parsonage, and replied
but to invite her in the kindest manner to' his own
house, and to claim the best right in her.

“You must give us more than half your time,”
said he. “ I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an
equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly
your sister! ”

Mary had only to be grateful and give general
assurances; but she was now very fully purposed
to be the guest of neither brother nor sister many
months longer.

“You. will divide your year between London
and Northamptonshire?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right; and in London, of course, a
house of your own, and no longer with the Admi¬
ral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of
getting away from the Admiral before your man¬
ners are hurt by the -contagion of his, before you
have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or
learned to sit over your dinner, as if it were the best
blessing of life! You are not sensible of the gain,
for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in
my estimation, your marrying early may be the
sating of you. To have seen you grow like the
Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would
have broken my heart.”

“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here.
The Admiral has his faults, but he is a very good
man, and has been more than a father to me. Few

VOL. ii. — 6

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fathers would have let me have my own way half
so much. You must not prejudice Fanny against
him. I must have them love one another.”

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that
there could not be two persons in existence whose
characters and manners were less accordant: time
would discover it to him; but she could not help
this reflection on the Admiral. “Henry, I think
so highly of Fanny Price that if I could suppose
the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason
which my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very
name, I would prevent the marriage, if possible;
but I know you, I know that a wife you loved
would be the happiest of women, and that even
when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you
the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman.”

The impossibility cf not doing everything in
the world to make Fanny Price happy, or of ceas¬
ing to love Fanny Price, was of course the ground¬
work of his eloquent answer.

“Had you seen her this morning, Mary,” he
continued, “ attending with such ineffable sweet¬
ness and patience to all the demands of her aunt’s
stupidity, working with her and for her, her color
beautifully heightened as she leant over the work,
thdli returning to her seat to finish a note which
she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman’s service, and all this with such un¬
pretending gentleness, so much as if it were a
matter of course that she was not to have a moment
at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly
as it always is, and one little curl falling forward
as she wrote, which she now and then shook back,

MANSFIELD PARK.

83

and in the midst of all this, still speaking at in¬
tervals to me, or listening, and as if she liked to
listen to what I said. Had you seen her so, Mary,
you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing.”

‘ ‘ My dearest Henry,” cried Mary, stopping
short, and smiling in his face, “how glad I am
to see you so much in love! It quite delights
me. But what will Mrs. Rushwortli and Julia
say? ”

“ I care neither what they say nor what they
feel. They will now see what sort of woman it is
that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.
I wish the discovery may do them any good. And
they will now see their cousin treated as she ought
to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed
of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.
They will he angry,” he added, after a moment’s
silence and in a cooler tone; “Mrs. Rushwortli
will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her •
that is, like other bitter pills, it will have two mo¬
ments’ ill-flavor, and then be swallowed and for¬
gotten ; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women’s,
though I was the object of them. Yes, Alary,
my Fanny will feel a difference indeed, a daily,
hourly difference, in the behavior of every being
who approaches her; and it will be the completion
of my happiness to know that I am the doer of it,
that I am the person to give the consequence so
justly her due. How she is dependent, helpless,

friendless, neglected, forgotten.”

“Hay, Henry, not by all, not forgotten by all;

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not friendless or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund
never forgets her.”

1 Edmunc), true, I believe he is (generally
speaking) kind to her; and so is Sir Thomas in
kis way, but it is the way of a rich, superior, long-
worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas
and Edmund together do, what do they do for her
happiness, comfort, honor, and dignity in the
world to what I shall do?”

v

CHAPTEB VII.

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Parle again
the next morning, and at an earlier hour than
common visiting warrants. The two ladies were
together in the breakfast-roonr; and fortunately for
him, Lady Bertram was on the very point of quit¬
ting it as he entered. She was almost at the door;
and not choosing by any means to take so much
trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civil re¬
ception, a short sentence about being waited for,
and a “ Let Sir Thomas know,” to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and
watched her off, and without losing another mo¬
ment, turned instantly to Fanny, and taking out
some letters, said with a most animated look : I

must acknowledge myself infinitely obliged to any
creature who gives me such an opportunity of see¬
ing you alone; I have been wishing it more .than
you can have any idea. Knowing as I do what
your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly have
borne that any one in the house should share with
you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring.
He is made. Your brother is a lieutenant. I
have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you
on your brother’s promotion. Here are the letters
which announce it, this moment come to hand.
You will, perhaps, like to see them.

86

MANSFIELD PARK.

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her
to speak. To see the expression of her eyes, the
change of her complexion, the progress of her feel¬
ings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was
enough. She took the letters as he gave them.
The first was from the Admiral, to inform his ne¬
phew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in
the object he had undertaken, the promotion of
young Price, and enclosing two more, — one from
the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend whom the
Admiral had set to work in the business ; the other
from that friend to himself, by which it appeared
that his Lordship had the very great happiness of
attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles,
that Sir Charles was much delighted in having
such an opportunity of proving his regard for Ad¬
miral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr.
William Price’s commission as Second Lieutenant
of H. M. Sloop Thrush being made out was spread¬
ing general joy through a wide circle of great
people.

While her hand was trembling under these
letters, her eye running from one to the other, and
her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express
hi& interest in the event : —

“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he,
“great as it is, for I think only of yours. Com¬
pared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
have almost grudged myself my own prior knowl¬
edge of what you ought to have known before all
the world. I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not

MANSFIELD PARK.

87

been since a moment’s delay. How impatient,
bow anxious, bow wild I have been on the subject,
I will not attempt to describe; how severely morti¬
fied, how cruelly disappointed, in not having it
finished while I was in London! I was kept there
from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less
dear to me than such an object would have detained
me half the time from Mansfield. But though my
uncle entered into my wishes with all the warmth
I could desire, and exerted himself immediately,
there were difficulties, from the absence of one
friend and the engagements of another, which at
last I could no longer bear to stay the end of; and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I
came away on Monday, trusting that many posts
would not pass before I should be followed by such
very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very
best man in the world, has exerted himself, as I
knew he would after seeing your brother. He was
delighted with him, — I would not allow myself,
yesterday, to say how delighted, or to repeat half
that the Admiral said in his praise. I deferred it
all till his praise should be proved the praise of a
friend, as this day does prove it. Now I may say
that even I could not require William Price to ex¬
cite a greater interest, or be followed by warmer
wishes and higher commendation, than were most
voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening
they passed together.”

“Has this been all your doing, then?” cried
Fanny. “Good Heaven! how very, very kind!
Have you really — was it by your desire — I
beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Ad-

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rniral Crawford apply? — how was it? — I am
stupefied.”

Henry was most happy to make it more intelli¬
gible, by beginning at an earlier stage, and ex*
plaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with
no other view than that of introducing her brother
in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral to
exert whatever interest he might have for getting
him on. This had been his business. He had
communicated it to no creature; he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary ; while un¬
certain of the issue, he could not have borne any
participation of his feelings, but this had been his
business; and he spoke with such a glow of what
bis solicitude had been, and used such strong ex¬
pressions, was so abounding in the deepest interest,
in twofold motives, in views and wishes more than
could be told, that Fanny could not have remained
insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend;
but her heart was so full and her senses still so as¬
tonished that she could listen but imperfectly even
to what he told her of William, and saying only
when he paused, “How kind! how very kind!
Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you.
Dearest, dearest William!” She jumped up and
moved in haste towards the door, crying out, “ ]
will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know it
as soon as possible.” But this could not be suf¬
fered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feel¬
ings too impatient. He was after her immediately.

She must not go, she must allow him five min¬
utes longer; ” and he took her hand and led her

MANSFIELD PARK.

89

back to her seat, and was in the middle of his fur¬
ther explanation, before she had suspected for
what she was detained. When she did understand
it, however, and found herself expected to believe
that she had created sensations which his heart
had never known before, and that everything he
had done for William was to be placed to the ac¬
count of his excessive and unequalled attachment
to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for
some moments unable to speak. She considered it
all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry,
which meant only to deceive for the hour; she
could not but feel that it was treating her improp¬
erly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had
not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely
of a piece with what she had seen before; and she
would not allow herself to show half the displeas¬
ure she felt, because he had been conferring an
obligation which no want of delicacy on his part
could make a trifle to her. While her heart was
still bounding with joy and gratitude on William’s
behalf, she could not be severely resentful of any¬
thing that injured only herself; and after having
twice drawn back her hand, and twice attempted in
vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said
only, with much agitation; “ Don’t, Mr. Crawford,
pray don’t. I beg you would not. This is a sort
of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must
go away. X cannot bear it.’' But he was still
talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a
return, and, finally, in words so plain as to bear
but one meaning even to her, offering himself,
hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It

90

MANSFIELD PARK.

was so, he had said it. Her astonishment and con¬
fusion increased; and though still not knowing
how to suppose him serious, she could hardly
stand. He pressed for an answer.

“Ho, no, no,” she cried, hiding her face. “This
is all nonsense. Ho not distress me. I can hear
no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express;
but I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen
to such — Ho, no, don’t think of me. But you are
not thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”

She had burst away from him, and at that mo¬
ment Sir Thomas was heard speaking to a servant
in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for further assurances or entreaty, though
to part with her at a moment when her modesty
alone seemed to his sanguine and preassured mind
to stand in the way of the happiness he sought was
a cruel necessity. She rushed out at an opposite
door from the one her uncle was approaching, and
was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir
Thomas’s politeness or apologies were over, or he
had reached the beginning of the joyful intelligence
v which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling, about
everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely
obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond be¬
lief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But
such were his habits that he could do nothing
without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now
he had insulted — She knew not what to say, —

MANSFIELD PARK.

91

how to class or how to regard it. She would not
have him he serious, and yet what could excuse
the use of such words and offers,' if they meant but
to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. That was a fact
beyond a doubt and without an alloy. She would
think of it forever, and forget all the rest. Mr.
Crawford would certainly never address her so
again : he must have seen how unwelcome it was
to her; and in that case how gratefully she could
esteem him for his friendship to William !

She would not stir farther from the East room
than the head of the great staircase, till she had
satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s having left the
house; but when convinced of his being gone, she
was eager to go down and be with her uncle, and
have all the happiness of his joy as well as her
own, and all the benefit of his information or his
conjectures as to what would now be William’s
destination. Sir Thomas was as joyful as she
could desire, and very kind and communicative;
and she had so comfortable a talk with him about
William as to make her feel as if nothing had oc¬
curred to vex her, till she found, towards the close,
that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine
there that very day. This was a most unwelcome
hearing; for though he might think nothing of
what had passed, it would be quite distressing to
her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it, — tried very hard,
as the dinner hour approached, to feel and appear
as usual ; but it was quite impossible for her not
to look most shy and uncomfortable when their

92

MANSFIELD PARK.

visitor entered the room. She could not have
supposed it in the power of any concurrence of
circumstances to give her so many painful sensa¬
tions on the first day of hearing of \V i ] 1 i am 7 s
promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room, _ he

was soon close to her. He had a note to deliver
from his sister. Fanny could not look at him,
but there was no consciousness of past folly in his
voice. She opened her note immediately, glad to
have anything to do, and happy, as she read it, to
feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was
also to dine there, screened her a little from view.

iIy dear Fanny, for so I may now always call
you, to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stum¬
bling at Miss Price for at least the last six weeks, — I
cannot let my brother go without sending you a few' lines
of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful con¬
sent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without
fear ; there can be no difficulties worth naming. I choose
to suppose that the assurance of my .consent will be some¬
thing; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest
smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even
happier than he goes.

Yours affectionately,

X M. C.

These were not expressions to do Fanny any
good; for though she read in too much haste and

Cmwf 1 t0 f°rm the Cl6areSt iudg« of Miss
Crawford s meaning, it was evident that she meant

o compliment her on her brother’s attachment,

and even to appear to believe it serious. She did

not know what to do or what to think. There

MANSFIELD PARK.

93

was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious;
there was perplexity and agitation every way.
She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke
to her, and he spoke to her much too often; and
she was afraid there was a something in his voice
and manner in addressing her very different from
what they were when he talked to the others.
Her comfort in that day’s dinner was quite de¬
stroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when
Sir Thomas good-humoredly observed that joy had
taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink
with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s
interpretation; for though nothing could have
tempted her to turn her eyes to the right hand,
where he sat, she felt that his were immediately
directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever. She would
hardly join even when William was the subject,
for his commission came all from the right hand
too, and there was pain in the connection.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever,
and began to he in despair of ever getting away;
but at last they were in the drawing-room, and she
was able to think as she would, while her aunts
finished the subject of William’s appointment in

their own style. ^ , ... .,

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the

saving it would be to Sir Thomas as with any part
of it “Now William would be able to keep him¬
self, ‘which would make a vast difference to his
uncle, for it was unknown how much he had cost
his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some differ¬
ence in her presents too. She was very glad that

94

MANSFIELD PARK.

she had given William what she did at parting,
very glad, indeed, that it had been in her power,
without material inconvenience, just at that time
to give him something rather considerable, — that
is, for her, with her limited means, — for now it
would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.
She knew he must be at some expense, that he
would have many things to buy, — though to be sure
his father and mother would be able to put him in
the way of getting everything very cheap, — but
she was very glad that she had contributed her
mite towards it.”

“ I am glad you gave him something consider¬
able,” said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious
calmness, “for I gave him only £10.”

“ Indeed! ” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “ Up¬
on my word, he must l ave gone off with his pock¬
ets well lined, and at no expense’ for his journey
to London either! ”

“Sir Thomas told me £10 would be enough.”

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to ques¬
tion its sufficiency, began to take the matter in
another point.

“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young
people cost their friends, what with bringing
them up and putting them out in the world!
They little think how much it comes to, or what
their parents or their uncles and aunts pay for
them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Prices children; take them altogether,

I dare say nobody would believe what a sum they
cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing of
what I do for them.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

95

•‘Very true, sister, as you say. But, poo*
things! they cannot help it; and you know it
makes very little difference to Sir Thomas.
Fanny, William must not forget my shawl, if he
goes to the East Indies; and I shall give him a
commission for anything else that is worth hav¬
ing. I wish he may go to the East Indies, that
I may have my shawl. I think I will have two
shawls, Fanny.”

Fanny meanwhile, speaking only when she
could not help it, was very earnestly trying to
understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at.
There was everything in the world against their
being serious, but his words and manner. E\ery
thing natural, probable, reasonable, was against
it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all
her own demerits. How could she have excited
serious attachment in a man who had seen so
many, and been admired, by so many, and flirted
with so many, infinitely her superiors, — who
seemed so little open to serious impressions, even
where pa;ns had been taken to please him, — who
thought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly
on all such points, — who was everything to every¬
body, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
And further, how could it be supposed that his
sister, with all her high and worldly notions of
matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a
serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could
be more unnatural in either. Fanny was ashamed
of her own doubts. Everything might be pos¬
sible rather than serious attachment, or serious
approbation of it toward her. She had quite con-

96

MANSFIELD PARK.

vinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr.
Crawford joined them. The difficult}' was in
maintaining the conviction quite so absolutely
after Mr. Crawford was in the room ; for once or
twice a look seemed forced on her which she did
not know how to class among the common mean¬
ing; in any other man, at least, she would have
said that it meant something very earnest, very
pointed. But she still tried to believe it no more
than what he might often have expressed towards
her cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her
unheard by the rest. She fancied he was trying
for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged
with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused him
every opportunity.

At last — it seemed an at last to Fanny’s ner¬
vousness, though not remarkably late — he began
to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next
moment, and saying: “Have you nothing to send
to Mary? No answer to her note? She will he
disappointed if she receives nothing from you.
Pray write to her, if it be only a line.”

Oh? yes> certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in
haste, — the haste of embarrassment and of want¬
ing to get away, “I will write directly.”

She went accordingly to the table where she
was in the habit of writing for her aunt, and pre¬
pared her materials without knowing what in the
world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note
only once; and how to reply to -anything. §Q.im:

MANSFIELD PARK

97

perfectly understood was most distressing. Quite
unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there
been time for scruples and fears as to style she
would have felt them in abundauce: but some¬
thing must be instantly written; and with only
one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear
to think anything really intended, she wrote thus,
in great trembling both of spirits and hand: —

I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Craw¬
ford, for your kind congratidations, as far' as they relate
to my dearest William. The rest of your note I know
means nothing ; but I am so unequal to anything of the
sort that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take
no further notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Craw¬
ford not to understand his manners ; if he understood me
as well, he would, I dare say, behave differently. I do
not know what I write, but it would be a great favor of
you never to mention the subject again. With thanks
for the honor of your note,

I remain, dear Miss Crawford,

Etc. etc.

The conc-USion was scarcely intelligible from in¬
creasing fright; for she found that Mr. Crawford,
under pretence of receiving the note, was coming
towards her.

“ You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said
he, in an under voice, perceiving the amazing trepi¬
dation with which she made up the note; “you
cannot think I have any such object. Do not
hurry yourself, I entreat.”

“ Oh, I thank you, I have quite done, just done
_ _ it will be ready in a moment — I am very much

von. ii. — ‘

98

MANSFIELD DARK.

obliged to you — if you will be so good as to give
that to Miss Crawford.”

The note was held out, and must be taken; and
as she instantly and with averted eyes walked
towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of
greater agitation, both of pain and pleasure; but
happily, the pleasure was not of a sort to die with
the day, — for every day would restore the knowl¬
edge of William’s advancement, whereas the pain
she hoped would return no more. She had no
doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-
written, that the language would disgrace a child,
for her distress had allowed no arrangement; but
at least it would assure them both of her being
neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s
attentions.

v

CHAPTER VIII.

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford
when she awoke the next morning; hut she remem¬
bered the purport of her note, and was not less san¬
guine as to its effect than she had been the night
before. If Mr. Crawford would but go away ! — -
that was what she most earnestly desired, — go
and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and
as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do. And
why it was not done already she could not devise,
for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay.
Fanny had hoped, in the course of his yesterday s
visit, to hear the day named; but he had only
spoken of their journey as what would take place
erelong.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction
her note would convey, she could not hut be aston¬
ished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally did,
coming up to the house again, and at an hour as
early as the day before. His coming might have
nothing to do with her, hut she must avoid seeing
him if possible; and being then in her way up¬
stairs, she resolved there to remain, during the
whole of his visit, unless actually sent for; and as
Mrs. Horris was still in the house, there seemed
little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation,
listening, trembling, and fearing to be sent for

100

MANSFIELD PARK.

every moment; but as no footsteps approached the
East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit
down, and he able to employ herself, and able to
hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go
without her being obliged to know anything of the
matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was
growing very comfortable, when suddenly the
sound of a step in regular approach was heard, — a
heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the
house; it was her uncle’s. She knew it as well as
his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and be¬
gan to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up
to speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It
was indeed Sir Thomas, who opened the door, and
asked if she were there and if he might come in.
The terror of his former occasional visits to that
room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he
were going to examine her again in French and
English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a
chair for him, and trying to appear honored, and
in her agitation had quite overlooked the deficien¬
cies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he
entered, said with much surprise, “ Why have you
no fire to-day? ”

There was snow on the ground, and she was sit¬
ting in a shawl. She hesitated.

“ I am not cold, sir, — I never sit here long at
this time of year. ’ ’

“ But you have a fire in general?”

“No, sir.”

“ How comes this about? Here must be some

MANSFIELD PARK.

101

mistake. I understood that you had the use of
this room hy way of making you perfectly com¬
fortable. In your bedchamber I know you cannot
have a fire. Here is some great misapprehension
which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you
to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a
fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your
aunt cannot be aware of this.’3

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being
obliged to speak, she could not forbear, in justice
to the aunt she loved best, from saying something
in which the words “ my aunt Norris33 were
distinguishable.

“I understand, 33 cried her uncle, recollecting
himself, and not wanting to hear more, — “I un¬
derstand. Your aunt Norris has always been an
advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s
being brought up without unnecessary indulgences;
but there should be moderation in everything. She
is also very hardy herself, which of course will in¬
fluence her in her opinion of the wants of others.
And on another account, too, I can perfectly com¬
prehend. I know what her sentiments have al¬
ways been. The principle was good in itself, but
it may have been, and I believe has been, carried
too far in your case. I am aware that there has
been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced dis¬
tinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to
suppose you will ever harbor resentment on that
account. You have an understanding which will
prevent you from receiving things only in part,
and judging partially by the event. You will take
in the whole of the past, you will consider times,

102

MANSFIELD PARK.

persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
they were not least your friends who were educa¬
ting and preparing you for that mediocrity of con¬
dition which seemed to be your lot. Though their
caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was
kindly meant; and of this you may be assured,
that every advantage of affluence will be doubled
by the little privations and restrictions that may
have been imposed. I am sure you will not dis¬
appoint my opinion of you, by failing at any time
to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and at¬
tention that are due to her. But enough of this.
Sit down, my dear. I must speak to you for a few
minutes, but I will not detain you long.”

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and color
rising. After a moment’s pause Sir Thomas, try¬
ing to suppress a smile, went on.

“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a
visitor this morning. I had not been long in my
own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford
was shown in. His errand you may probably
conjecture.”

Fanny’s color grew deeper and deeper; and her
uncle, perceiving that she was embarrassed to a
degree that made either speaking or looking up
’quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and
without any further pause proceeded in his account
of Mr. Crawford’s visit.

Mr. Crawford’s business had been to declare
himself the lover of Fanny, make decided proposals
for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle, who
seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and
he had done it all so well, so openly, so liberally.

MANSFIELD PARK.

103

so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling moreover
his own replies and his own remarks to have been
very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy
to give the particulars of their conversation, and
little aware of what was passing in his niece’s
mind, conceived that by such details he must he
gratifying her far more than himself. He talked,
therefore, for several minutes without Fanny’s dar¬
ing to interrupt him. She had hardly even at¬
tained the wish to do it. Her mind was in too
much confusion. She had changed her position;
and with her eyes fixed intently on one of the
windows, was listening to her uncle in the ut¬
most perturbation and ' dismay. For a moment
he ceased; hut she had barely become conscious
of it, when, rising from his chair, he said: “And
now, Fanny, having performed one part of my
commission, and shown you everything placed on
the basis the most assured and satisfactory, I
may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to
accompany me downstairs, where, though I can¬
not but presume on having been no unacceptable
companion myself, I must submit to your finding
one still better worth listening to.. Mr. Craw¬
ford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet m t le
house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you

there ^

There was a look, a start, an exclamation, on
hearing this, which astonished Sir Thomas; but
what was his increase of astonishment on hearing
her exclaim: “Oh, no, sir, I cannot, indeed
cannot go down to him. Mr. Crawford ought to
know -he must know that -I told him enough

104

MANSFIELD PARK.

yesterday to convince him — lie spoke to me on
this subject yesterday, and I told him with¬
out disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
and quite out of my power to return his good
opinion.”

“I do not catch your meaning,” said Sir
Thomas, sitting down again. “ Out of your
power to return his good opinion! What is all
this? I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as
far as I understand) received as much encourage¬
ment to proceed as a well-judging young woman
could permit herself to give. I was very much
pleased with what I collected to have been your
behavior on the occasion; it showed a discretion
highly to be commended. But now, when he has
made his overtures so properly and honorably, —
what are your scruples now?”

“You are mistaken, sir, ” cried Fanny, forced
by the anxiety of the moment even to tell her
uncle that he was wrong, — “you are quite mis¬
taken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a
thing? I gave him no encouragement yesterday.
On the contrary, I told him — I cannot recollect
my exact words — but I am sure I told him that
I would not listen to him, that it was very un¬
pleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged
him never to talk to me in that manner again. I
am sure I said as much as that and more; and I
should have said still more, if I had been quite
certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I
did not like to he — I could not bear to be _ im¬

puting more than might be intended. I thought
it might all pass for nothing with him.”

MANSFIELD PARK. 105

She could say no more; her breath was almost
gone.

“Am I to understand,” said Sir Thomas, after
a few moments’ silence, “that you mean to refuse
Mr. Crawford? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“ Refuse him? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“ Refuse Mr. Crawford ! Upon what plea? For
what reason? ”

“I — I cannot like him, sir, well enough to
marry him.”

“This is very strange! ” said Sir Thomas, in a
voice of calm displeasure. “There is something
in this which my comprehension does not reach.
Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses
to you, with everything to recommend him, — not
merely situation in life, fortune, and character,
but with more than common agreeableness, with
address and conversation pleasing to everybody.
And he is not an acquaintance of to-day; you have
now known him some time. His sister, moreover,
is your intimate friend, and he has been doing that
for your brother which I should suppose would
have been almost sufficient recommendation to
you, had there been no other. It is very uncer¬
tain when my interest might have got William
on. He has done it already.

“Yes,” said Fanny, in a faint voice, and look¬
ing down with fresh shame; and she did feel
almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture
as her uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr.
Crawford.

106

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ You must have been aware,” continued Sir
Thomas, presently, — “you must have been some¬
time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford s
manners to you. This cannot have taken you by
surprise. You must have observed his attentions;
and though you always received them very prop¬
erly (I have no accusation to make on that head),
I never perceived them to be unpleasant to you.
I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do
not quite know your own feelings.”

“ Oh, yes, sir, indeed I do. His attentions were
always — what I did not like.”

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise.
“This is beyond me,” said he; “this requires
explanation. Young as you are, and having seen
scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your
affections — ”

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her
lips formed into a no, though the sound was inar¬
ticulate ; but her face was like scarlet. That, how¬
ever, in so modest a girl might be very compatible
with innocence; and choosing at least to appear
satisfied, he quickly added: “Ho, no, I know that
is quite out of the question, — quite impossible.
Well, there is nothing more to be said.”

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He
was deep in thought. His niece was deep in
thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against further questioning. She would
rYther die than own the truth; and she hoped by
a little reflection to fortify herself beyond betrav-
ing it.

“Independently of the interest which Mr. Craw-

MANSFIELD PARK.

107

ford’s choice seemed to justify,” said Sir Thomas
beginning again, and very composedly, “his wish¬
ing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to
me. I am an advocate for early marriages, where
there are means in proportion, and would have
every young man, with a sufficient income, settle
as soon after four-and-twenty as he can. This is
so much my opinion that I am sorry to think
how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin,
Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but at present,
as far as I can judge, matrimony makes no part of
his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more likely
to fix. ” Here was a glance at Fanny. “Edmund
I consider from his disposition and habits as much
more likely to marry early than his brother. He,
indeed, I have lately thought has seen the woman
he could love, which I am convinced my eldest son
has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me,
my dear? ”

“Yes, sir.”

It was gently, hut it was calmly said; and Sir
Thomas was easy on the score of the cousins. But
the removal of his alarm did his niece no service :
as her unaccountableness was confirmed, his dis¬
pleasure increased; and getting up and walking
about the room, with a frown, which Fanny could
picture to herself, though she dared not lift up
her eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of
authority, said, “Have you any reason, child, to
think ill of Mr. Crawford’s temper? ”

“ No, sir.”

She longed to add, “But of his principles I
have; ” but her heart sunk under the appalling pros-

108

MANSFIELD PARK.

pect of discussion, explanation, and probably non¬
conviction. Her ill-opinion of him was founded
chiefly on observations which, for her cousins’
sake, she could scarcely dare mention to their
father. Maria and J ulia, and especially Maria, were
so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford s miscon¬
duct that she could not give his character, such as
she believed it, without betraying them. She had
hoped that to a man like her uncle, so discerning,
so honorable, so good, the simple acknowledgment
of settled dislike on her side would have been suf¬
ficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she
sat in trembling wretchedness, and with a good
deal of cold sternness said : “It is of no use, I
perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an
end to this most mortifying conference. Mr.
Crawford must not he kept longer waiting. I
will therefore only add, as thinking it my duty
to mark my opinion of your conduct, that you have
disappointed every expectation I had formed, and
proved yourself of a character the very reverse of
what I had supposed. For I had, Fanny, as I
think my behavior must have shown, formed a
very favorable opinion of you from the period of my
return to England. I had thought you peculiarly
free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and
every tendency to that independence of spirit
ijfhich prevails so much in modern days, even in
young women, and which in young women is of¬
fensive and disgusting beyond all common offence.
But you have now shown me that you can be wil¬
ful and perverse, that you can and will decide for

MANSFIELD PARK.

109

yourself, without any consideration or deference
for those who have surely some right to guide you,

— without even asking their advice. You have
shown yourself very, very different from anything
that I had imagined. The advantage or disad¬
vantage of your family — of your parents, your
brothers and sisters — never seems to have had a
moment’s share in your thoughts on this occasion.
How they might he benefited, how they must re¬
joice in such an establishment for you, is nothing
to you. You think only of yourself; and because
you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a
young, heated fancy imagines to be necessary for
happiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, with¬
out wishing even for a little time to consider of it,

— a little more time for cool consideration, and for
really examining your own inclinations, — and are,
in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such
an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly,
honorably, nobly settled, as will probably never
occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense,
of character, of temper, of manners, and of fortune,
exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand
in the most handsome and disinterested way; and
let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen
years longer in the world, without being addressed
by a man of half Mr. Crawford’s estate, or a tenth
part of his merits. Gladly would 1 have bestowed
either of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly
married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia’s
hand, I should have given it to him with superior
and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria’s
to Mr. Rush worth.” After half a moment’s pause :■

110

MANSFIELD PARK.

“And I should have been very much surprised
had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal
of marriage at any time which might carry with
it only half the eligibility of this, immediately and
peremptorily, and without paying my opinion or
my regard the compliment of any consultation, put
a decided negative on it. I should have been much
surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding.
I should have thought it a gross violation of duty
and respect. You are not to be judged by the
same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a
child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you
of ingratitude — ”

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so
bitterly that, angry as he was, he would not press
that article further. Her heart was almost broken
by such a picture of what she appeared to him ; by
such accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising
in dreadful gradation! Self-willed, obstinate, self¬
ish, and ungrateful, — he thought her all this. She
had deceived his expectations; she had lost his
good opinion. What was to become of her?

“I am very sorry,” said she, inarticulately,
through her tears, ‘ •' I am very sorry indeed. ’ ’

“ Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will
probably have reason to be long sorry for this day’s
transactions.”

“If it were possible for me to do otherwise,”
said she, with another strong effort; “but I am
so perfectly convinced that I could never make him
happy, and that I should be miserable myself.”

Another burst of tears ; but in spite of that
burst, and in spite of that great black word “miser-

MANSFIELD PARK.

Ill

able,” which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas
began to think a little relenting, a little change of
inclination, might have something to do with it;
and to auger favorably from the personal entreaty
of the young man himself. He knew her to be
very timid and exceedingly nervous; and thought
it not improbable that her mind might be in such
a state, as a little time, a little pressing, a little
patience, and a little impatience, a judicious mix¬
ture of all on the lover’s side, might work their
usual effect on. If the gentleman would but per¬
severe, if he had but love enough to persevere —
Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these reflec¬
tions having passed across his mind and cheered
it, “Well,” said he, in a tone of becoming gravity,
but of less anger, — “well, child, dry up your
tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do
no good. You must now come downstairs with me.
Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long al¬
ready. You must give him your own answer: you
cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and
you only can explain to him the grounds of that
misconception of your sentiments which, unfor¬
tunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I
am totally unequal to it.”

But Fanny showed such reluctance, such misery,
at the idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas,
after a little consideration, judged it better to in¬
dulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and
lady suffered a small depression in consequence;
but when he looked at his niece, and saw the state
of feature and complexion which her crying had
brought her into, he thought there might be as

112

MANSFIELD PARK.

much lost as gained by an immediate interview.
With a few words, therefore, of no particular
meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his
poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed
with very wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present,
future, — everything was terrible. But her uncle s
anger gave her the severest pain of all. Selfish
and ungrateful ! — to have appeared so to him ! She
was miserable forever. She had no one to take
her part, to counsel or speak for her. Her only
friend was absent. He might have softened
his father; but all, perhaps all, would think her
selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure
the reproach again and again; she might hear it,
or see it, or know it to exist forever in every con¬
nection about her. She could not hut feel some
resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet if he really
loved her, and were unhappy too ! — it was all
wretchedness together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle re¬
turned; she was almost ready to faint at the sight
of him. He spoke calmly, however, without aus¬
terity, without reproach, and she revived a little.
There was comfort, too, in his words, as well as
his manner; for he began with: “Mr. Crawford is
gone; he has just left me. I need not repeat
what has passed. I do not Want to add to any¬
thing you may now be feeling, by an account of
what he has felt. Suffice it that he has hehaAmd
in the most gentlemanlike and generous manner,
and has confirmed me in a most favorable opiuion
of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon

MANSFIELD PARK

113

my representation of what you were suffering, he
immediately, and with the greatest delicacy,
ceased to urge to see you for the present. ”

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down
again.

“Of course,” continued her uncle, “it cannot
be supposed but that he should request to speak
with you alone, be it only for live minutes,- — a
request too natural, a claim too just to be denied.
But there is no time fixed, perhaps to-morrow, or
whenever your spirits are composed enough. For
the present you have only to tranquillize yourself.
Check these tears; they do but exhaust you. If,
as I am willing to suppose, you wish to show me
any observance, you will not give way to these
emotions, but endeavor to reason yourself into a
stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out,
the air will do you good; go out for an hour on
the gravel. You will have the shrubbery to your¬
self, and will be the better for air and exercise.
And, Fanny,” turning back again for a moment,
“I shall make no mention below of what has
passed; I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram.
There is no occasion for spreading the disappoint¬
ment; say nothing about it yourself.”

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed;
this was an act of kindness which Fanny felt at
her heart. To be spared from her aunt Norris’s
interminable reproaches !— he left her in a glow
of gratitude. Anything might be bearable rather
than such reproaches. Even to see Mr. Crawford
would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recoim

VOL. II. — 8

114

MANSFIELD PARK.

mended, and followed his advice throughout, as
far as she could; did check her tears, did earnestly
try to compose her spirits, and strengthen her
mind. She wished to prove to him that she did
desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favoi ;
and he had given her another strong motive for
exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the
knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite suspicion
by her look or manner was now an object worth
attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything
that might save her from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on return¬
ing from her walk and going into the East room
again, the first thing which caught her eye was a
fire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too
much; just at that time to be giving her such an
indulgence, was exciting even painful gratitude.
She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure
to think of such a trifle again; hut she soon found,
from the voluntary information of the housemaid
who came in to attend it, that so it was to be
every day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it.

“I must he a brute, indeed, if I can he really
ungrateful!” said she, in soliloquy. “Heaven
defend me from being ungrateful!”

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her
;junt Norris, till they met at dinner. Her uncle’s
Cehavior to her was then as nearly as possible
V what it had been before ; she was sure he did not
mean there should be any change, and that it was
only her own conscience that could fancy any : but
her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when
she found how much and how unpleasantly her

MANSFIELD PARK.

115

having only walked out without her aunt’s knowl¬
edge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she
had to bless the kindness which saved her from
the same spirit of reproach, exerted on a more
momentous subject.

“If I had known you were going out, I should
have got you just to go as far as my house with
some orders for Nanny,” said she, “which I
have since, to my very great inconvenience, been
obliged to go and carry myself. I could very ill
spare the time, and you might have saved me the
trouble if you would only have been so good as to
let us know you were going out. It would have
made no difference to you, I suppose, whether you
had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house.”

“I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the
driest place,” said Sir Thomas.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Norris, with a moment’s
check, “that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas;
but you do not know how dry the path is to my
house. Fanny would have had quite as good a
walk there, I assure you; with the advantage of
being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all
her fault. If she would but have let us know she
was going out — but there is a something about
Fanny, I have often observed it before — she likes
to go her own way to work ; she does not like to
be dictated to; she takes her own independent
walk, whenever she can; she certainly has a little
spirit of secrecy and independence and nonsense
about her, which I would advise her to get the
better of.”

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas

116 MANSFIELD PARK.

thought nothing could he more unjust, though he
had been so lately expressing the same sentiments
himself, and he tried to turn the conversation, —
tried repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mis.
Norris had not discernment enough to perceive,
either now or at any other time, to what degree he
thought well of his niece, or how very far he was
from wishing to have his own children’s merits
set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talk¬
ing at Fanny, and resenting this private walk half
through the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening
set in with more composure to Fanny, and more
cheerfulness of spirits than she could have hoped
for after so stormy a morning : hut she trusted, in
the first place, that she had done right, that her
judgment had not misled her; for the purity of
her intentions she could answer ; and she was
willing to hope, secondly, that her uncle’s dis¬
pleasure was abating, and would abate further as
he considered the matter with more impartiality,
and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched
and how unpardonable, how hopeless and how
wicked it was to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threat¬
ened for the morrow was past, she could not but
flatter herself that the subject would be finally
concluded, and, Mr. Crawford onee gone from
Mansfield, that everything would soon be as if no
sdteh subject had existed. She would not, eould
not believe that Mr. Crawford’s affection for her
could distress him long; his mind was not of that
sort. London would soon bring its cure. In Lorn

MANSFIELD PAPJv.

117

don lie would soon learn to wonder at his infatua¬
tion, and he thankful for the right reason in her
which had saved him from its evil consequences.

While Fanny’s mind was engaged in these sort
of hopes, her uncle was soon after tea called out of
the room, — an occurrence too common to strike her,
and she thought nothing of it till the butler re¬
appeared ten minutes afterwards, and advancing
decidedly towards herself, said, “ Sir Thomas
wishes to speak with you, ma’am, in his own
room.” Then it occurred to her what might he
going on ; a suspicion rushed over her mind which
drove the color from her cheeks; but instantly
rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs.
bTorris called out: “Stay, stay, Fanny! what are
you about? where are you going? Don’t he in such
a hurry. Depend upon it, it is not you that are
wanted; depend upon it, it is me,” looking at the
butler; “hut you are so very eager to put your¬
self forward. What should Sir Thomas want you
for? It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming
this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am
sure; Sir Thomas wspnts me, not Miss Price.”

But Baddeley was stout. «No, ma’am, it is
Miss Price; I am certain of its being Miss Price.”
And there was a Jialf smile with the words which
meant, “ I do not think you would answer the
purpose at all.”

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to
compose herself to work again; and Fanny, walk¬
ing off in agitating consciousness, found herself,
as°she anticipated, in another minute alone with
Mr. Crawford.

CHAPTER IX.

The conference was neither so short nor so conclu¬
sive as the lady had designed. The gentleman
was not so easily satisfied. He had all the dispo¬
sition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish
him. He had vanity, which strongly inclined
him, in the first place, to think she did love him,
though she might not know it herself; and which,
secondly, when constrained at last to admit that
she did know her own present feelings, convinced
him that he should he able in time to make those
feelings what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a
love which, operating on an active, sanguine spirit,
of more warmth than delicacy, made her affection
appear of greater consequence because it was with¬
held, and determined him to have the glory, as
well as the felicity, of forcing her to love him.

He would not despair; he would not desist. He
had every well-grounded reason for solid attach¬
ment ; he knew her to have all the worth that could
justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness
with her; her conduct at this very time, by speak¬
ing the disinterestedness and delicacy of her char¬
acter (qualities which he believed most rare indeed),
was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm
all his resolutions. He knew not that he had a

MANSFIELD PARK.

119

pre-engaged heart to attach. Of that, he had no
suspicion. He considered her rather as one who
had never thought on the subject enough to he in
danger ; who had been guarded by youth, a youth
of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty had
prevented her from understanding his attentions,
and who was still overpowered by the suddenness
of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the novelty
of a situation which her fancy had never taken
into account.

Must it not follow, of course, that when he was
understood, he should succeed? He believed it
fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
must with perseverance secure a return, and at no
great distance; and he had so much delight in the
idea of obliging her to love him in a very short
time, that her not loving him now was scarcely re¬
gretted. A little difficulty to be overcome was no
evil to Henry Crawford. He rather derived spirits
from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily.
His situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much
opposition all her life to find any charm in it, all
this was unintelligible. She found that he did
mean to persevere ; but how he could, after such
language from her as she felt herself obliged to
use, was not to be understood. She told him that
she did not love him, could not love him, was sure
she never should love him; that such a change uas
qhite impossible; that the subject was most painful
to her; that she must entreat him never to mention
it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and let
it be considered as concluded forever. And when

120

MANSFIELD PARK.

further pressed, had added that in her opinion
their dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to
make mutual affection incompatible; and that they
were unfitted for each other by nature, education,
and habit. All this she had said, and with the
earnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough,
for he immediately denied there being anything
uncongenial in their characters, or anything un¬
friendly in their situations, and positively declared
that he would still love and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge
of her own manner. Her manner was incurably
gentle; and she was not aware how much it con¬
cealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence,
gratitude, and softness made every expression of

indifference seem almost an effort of self-denial, _

seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to
herself as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer
the Mr. Crawford who, as the clandestine, insidi¬
ous, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had
been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see
or to speak to, in whom she could believe no good
quality to exist, and whose power, even of being
agreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was
now the Mr. Crawford who was addressing herself
with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings
were apparently become all that was honorable and
upright, whose views of happiness were all fixed
on a marriage of attachment; who was pouring out
his* sense of her merits, describing and describing
again his affection, proving, as far as words could
prove it, and m the language, tone, and spirit of a
man of talent too, that he sought her for her

MANSFIELD PARK.

121

gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the
whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had
procured William’s promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which
could not hut operate! She might have disdained
him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in the
grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield
Park; hut he approached her now with rights that
demanded different treatment. She must be cour¬
teous, and she must be compassionate. She must
have a sensation of being honored, and whether
thinking of herself or her brother, she must have
a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the
whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and
words intermingled with her refusal so expressive
of obligation and concern, that to a temper of
vanity and hope like Crawford’s, the truth, or at
least the strength of her indifference, might well
be questionable; and he was not so irrational as
Pauny considered him, in the professions of per¬
severing, assiduous, and not desponding attachment
which closed the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to
go ; but there was no look of despair in parting to
belie his words, or give her hopes of his being less
unreasonable than he professed himself.

How she was angry. Some resentment did
arise at a perseverance so selfish and ungenerous.
Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for
others which had formerly so struck and disgusted
her. Here was again a something of the same Mr.
Crawford whom she had so reprobated before. How
evidently was there a gross want of feeling and

122

MANSFIELD PARK.

humanity where his own pleasure was concerned;
and, alas ! how always known no principle to supply
as a duty what the heart was deficient in. Had
her own affections been as free, as perhaps they
ought to have been — he never could have engaged
them.

So thought Fanny in good truth and sober sad¬
ness, as she sat musing over that too great indul¬
gence and luxury of a fire upstairs, — wondering at
the past and present, wondering at what was yet
to come, and in a nervous agitation which made
nothing clear to her but the persuasion of her being
never under any circumstances able to love Mr.
Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire to sit
over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged or obliged himself to
wait till the morrow for a knowledge of what had
passed between the young people. He then saw
Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first
feeling was disappointment : he had hoped better
tilings; he had thought that an hour’s entreaty
fiom a young man like Crawford could not have
worked so little change on a gentle-tempered girl
like Fanny; but there was speedy comfort in the
determined views and sanguine perseverance of the
lover; and when seeing such confidence of success
in the principal, Sir Thomas was soon able to
depend on himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility,
compliment, or kindness, that might assist the
plan. Mr. Crawford’s steadiness was honored, and
anuy was praised, and the connection was still
the most desirable in the world. At Mansfield

MANSFIELD PARK.

123

Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he
had only to consult his own judgment and feelings
as to the frequency of his visits, at present or in
future. In all the niece’s family and friends there
could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject;
the influence of all who loved her must incline one
way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every
encouragement received with grateful joy, and the
gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the
most proper and hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to
abstain from all further importunity with his niece,
and to show no open interference. Upon her dis¬
position he believed kindness might be the best
way of working. Entreaty should be from one
quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a
point respecting which she could be in no doubt of
their wishes might be their surest means of for¬
warding it. Accordingly on this principle Sir
Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her,
with a mild gravity intended to be overcoming:
“Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,
and learn from him exactly how matters stand be¬
tween you. He is a most extraordinary young man,
and whatever be the event, you must feel that you
have created an attachment of no common character;
though, young as you are, and little acquainted
with the transient, varying, unsteady nature of
love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as
I am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of
this sort against discouragement. With him it is
entirely a matter of feeling; he claims no merit in

124

MANSFIELD PARK.

it, perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen
so well, his constancy has a respectable stamp.
Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should
have condemned his persevering.”

“ Indeed, sir,” said Fanny, “ I am very sorry that
Mr. Crawford should continue to — I know that it
is paying me a very great compliment, and I feel
most undeservedly honored ; but I am so perfectly
convinced, and I have told him so, that it will never
be in my power — ”

My dear, interrupted Sir Thomas, (e there is
no occasion for this. Your feelings are as well
known to me as my wishes and regrets must be
to you. There is nothing more to be said or done.
From this hour the subject is never to be revived
between us. You will have nothing to fear or to
be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable
of trying to persuade you to marry against your
inclinations. Your happiness and advantage are
all that I have in view, and nothing is required of
yon but to bear with Mr. Crawford’s endeavors to
convince you that they may not be incompatible
with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are
on safe ground I have engaged for your seeing
him whenever he caHs, as you might have donf
nad nothing of this sort occurred. You will see
him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and

evervtY “ dlsmissillg the recollection of

shV ing OHpieasant. He leaves Horthampton-

be oft S° r ^ 6Ven this Slight sacrifice cannot
certat Y 27 ^ ^ be -ry un-

cW between^’ ^ ** "*** -

MANSFIELD PARK.

125

The promised departure was all that Fanny could
think of with much satisfaction. Her uncle’s kind
expressions, however, and forbearing manner were
sensibly felt; and when she considered how much
of the truth was unknown to him, she believed she
had no right to wonder at the line of conduct he
pursued, — he who had married a daughter to Mr.
Rushworth. Romantic delicacy was certainly not
to be expected from him. She must do her duty,
and trust that time might make her duty easier
than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr.
Crawford’s attachment would hold out forever;
she could not but imagine that steady, unceasing
discouragement from herself would put an end to it
in time. How much time she might, in her own

fancy, allot for its dominion, is another concern.
It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady’s
exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found
himself once more obliged to mention the subject
to his niece, — to prepare her briefly for its being
imparted to her aunts ; a measure which he would
still have avoided, if possible, but which became
necessary from the totally opposite feelings of Mr
Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He had
no idea of concealment. It was all known at the
Parsonage, where he loved to talk over the future
with both his sisters; audit would be rather grati¬
fying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the
progress of his success. When SR Thomas under¬
stood this, he felt the necessity of making his own
wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business

126

MANSFIELD PARK.

without delay; though, on Fanny’s account, he al¬
most dreaded the effect of the communication to Mrs.
Norris as much as Fanny herself. He deprecated
her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas,
indeed, was by this time not very far from class¬
ing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people
who are always doing mistaken and very disagree¬
able things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed
for the strictest forbearance and silence towards
their niece; she not only promised, but did ob¬

serve it. She only looked her increased ill-will.
Angry she was, bitterly angry; but she was more
angry with Fanny for having received such an
offer, than for refusing it. It was an injury and
affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr.
Crawford’s choice; and, independently of that,
she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected
her; and she would have grudged such an eleva¬
tion to one whom she had been always trying to
depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion
on the occasion than she deserved; and Fanny
could have blessed her for allowing her only to
see her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had
een a beauty, and a prosperous beauty, all her
lie; and beauty and wealth were all that excited
her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in
marriage by a man of fortune raised her, there-

W VwIyTrmUCh ^ hei' °pini°n- % convincing
er that Fanny was very pretty, which she had

been doubting about before, and that she would

MANSFIELD PAKK. 127

be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort
of credit in calling her niece.

“Well, Fanny,” said she, as soon as they were
alone together afterwards, — and she really had
known something like impatience to he alone with
her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extra¬
ordinary animation, — “well, Fanny, I have had
a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must
just speak of it once, I told Sir Thomas I must
once, and then I shall have done. I give you joy,
my dear niece.” And looking at her compla¬
cently, she added, “Humph! we certainly are a
handsome family.”

Fanny colored, and doubted at first what to say;
when hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side,
she presently answered, —

“My dear aunt, you cannot wish me to do
differently from what I have done, I am sure.
You cannot wish me to marry; for you would
miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you
would miss me too much for that.”

“No, my dear, I should not think of missing
you, when such an offer as this comes in your
way. I could do very well without you, if you
were married to a man of such good estate as Mr.
Crawford. And you must be aware, Fanny, that
it is every young woman’s duty to accept such a
very unexceptionable offer as this.”

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the
only piece of advice, which Fanny had ever
received from her aunt in the course of eight years
and a half. It silenced her. She felt how un¬
profitable contention would be. If her aunt’s

128

MANSFIELD PARK.

feelings were against her, nothing could he hoped
from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram
was quite talkative.

“I will tell you what, Fanny,” said she, — “I
am sure he fell in love with you at the ball ; I am
sure the mischief was done that evening. You
did look remarkably well. Everybody said so.
Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had
Chapman to help you dress. I am very glad I
sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas
that I am sure it was done that evening.” And
still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she
soon afterwards added: “And I will tell you what,
Fanny, — which is more than I did for Maria, — •
the next time pug has a litter you shall have
a puppy."

v

CHAPTER X.

Edmund had great things to hear on his return.
Many surprises were awaiting him. The first
that occurred was not least in interest, — the ap¬
pearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walk¬
ing together through the village, as he rode into
it. He had concluded — he had meant them to
be far distant. His absence had been extended
beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Craw¬
ford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits
ready to feed on melancholy remembrances and
tender associations, when her own fair self was
before him, leaning on her brother’s arm; and he
found himself receiving a welcome, unquestion¬
ably friendly, from the woman whom, two mo¬
ments before, he had been thinking of as seventy
miles off, and as farther, much farther from him
in inclination than any distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he
could not have hoped for, had he expected to see
her. Coming as he did from such a purport ful¬
filled as had taken him away, he would have ex¬
pected anything rather than a look of satisfaction,
and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was
enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring
him home in the properest state for feeling the
full value of the other joyful surprises at hand.

VOL. II. — 9

130

MANSFIELD PARK.

William’s promotion, with all its particulars,
he was soon master of; and with such a secret
provision of comfort within his own breast to help
the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying
sensation and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner¬
time.

After dinner, when he and his father were
alone, he had Fanny’s history; and then all the
great events of the last fortnight, and the present
situation of matters at Mansfield were known to
him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat
so much longer than usual in the dining-parlor
that she was sure they must be talking of her;
and when tea at last brought them away, and she
was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dread-
fully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her,
took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that
moment she thought that but for the occupation
and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she
must have betrayed her emotion in some unpar¬
donable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action
to be conveying to her that unqualified approba¬
tion and encouragement which her hopes drew
from it. It was designed only to express his par-
icipation m all that interested her, and to tell
her that he had been hearing what quickened
every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, en-
ne y on his father’s side of the question. His
surprise was not so great as his father’s, at her
re usnig Crawford, because, so far from supposing
consider him with anything like a prefer

MANSFIELD PARK.

131

ence, he had always believed it to he rather the
reverse, and could imagine her to be taken per¬
fectly unprepared; hut Sir Thomas could not re¬
gard the connection as more desirable than he did.
It had every recommendation to him; and while
honoring her for what she had done under the
influence of her present indifference, honoring her
in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could
quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and
sanguine in believing, that it would be a match
at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it
would appear that their dispositions were as ex¬
actly fitted to make them blessed in each other
as he was now beginning seriously to consider
them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He
had not given her time to attach herself. He had
begun at the wrong end. With such powers as
his, however, and such a disposition as hers,
Edmund trusted that everything would work out
a happy conclusion. Meanwhile he saw enough
of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupu¬
lously guard against exciting it a second time by
any word or look or movement.

Crawford called the next day ; and on the score
of Edmund’s return, Sir Thomas felt himself
more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner: it
was really a necessary compliment. He stayed of
course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity
for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what
degree of immediate encouragement for him might
be extracted from her manners; and it was so
little, so very, very little (every chance, every
possibility of it resting upon her embarrassment

132

MANSFIELD PARK.

only ; if there was not hope in her confusion, there
was hope in nothing else), that he was almost
ready to wonder at his friend’s perseverance.
Fanny was worth it all; he held her to he worth
every effort of patience, every exertion of mind,
but he did not think he could have gone on him¬
self, with any woman breathing, without some¬
thing more to warm his courage than his eyes
could discern in hers. He was very willing to
hope that Crawford saw clearer; and this was the
most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he
could come to from all that he observed to pass
before and at and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred
which he thought more promising. When he and
Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother
and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at
work as if there were nothing else to care for.
Edmund could not help noticing their apparently
deep tranquillity.

_ “ We have not been so silent all the time, ” replied
his mother. “Fanny has been reading to me, and
only put the book down upon hearing you coming.”
And sure enough there was a book on the table

which had the air of being very recently closed, _

a volume of fehakspeare. “ She often reads tome
out of those books; and she was in the middle of
a very fine speech of that man’s — What ’s his
name, Fanny? — when we heard your footsteps.”

wrawford took the volume. “Let me have the
pleasure of finishing that speech to your Lady¬
ship,” said he. “I shall find it immediately.”
And by carefully giving way to the inclination of

MANSFIELD PARK.

133

the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, _

quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who
assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of
Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech.
Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given ;
not a syllable for or against. All her attention
was for her work. She seemed determined to be
interested by nothing else. But taste was too
strong in her. She could not abstract her mind
five minutes; she was forced to listen: his reading
was capital, and her pleasure in good reading ex¬
treme. To good reading, however, she had been
long used, — her uncle read well, her cousins all,
Edmund very well ; but in Mr. Crawford’s read¬
ing there was a variety of excellence beyond what
she had ever met with. The King, the Queen,
Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in
turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest
power of jumping and guessing, he could always
light, at will, on the best scene or the best speeches
of each; and whether it were dignity or pride or
tenderness or remorse, or whatever were to be ex¬
pressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was
truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny
what pleasure a play might give, and his reading
brought all his acting before her again; nay, per¬
haps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpect¬
edly, and with no such drawback as she had been
used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with
Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention,
and was amused and gratified by seeing how she
gradually slackened in the needlework, which at

134

MANSFIELD PARK.

the beginning seemed to occupy her totally; how it
fell from her hand while she sat motionless over it
— and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so
studiously to avoid him throughout the day were
turned and fixed on Crawford, fixed on him for
minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction
drew Crawford’s upon her, and the hook was closed,
and the charm was broken. Then she was shrink¬
ing again into herself, and blushing and working
as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give
Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he
cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing
Fanny’s secret feelings too.

“That play must be a favorite with you,” said
he; “ you read as if you knew it well.”

“ It will be a- favorite, I believe, from this
hour,” replied Crawford; “but I do not think I
have had a volume of Shakspeare in my hand be¬
fore since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the
Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from some¬
body who did, — I am not certain which. But
Shakspeare one gets acquainted with without know¬
ing how. It is a part of an Englishman’s consti¬
tution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread
abroad that one touches them everywhere; one
is intimate with him by instinct. No man of
any brain can open at a good part of one of his
plays without falling into the flow of his meaning
immediately.”

*PNo doubt one is familiar writh Shakspeare in a
degree,” said Edmund, “from one’s earliest years.
His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody :
they are in half the books we open, and we all talk

MANSFIELD PARK.

135

Shakspeare, use his similes, and describe with his
descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giv¬
ing his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits
and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty
thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read
him well aloud is no every-day talent.”

“ Sir, you do me honor,” was Crawford’s answer,
with a bow of mock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see
if a word of accordant praise could be extorted
from her, yet both feeling that it could not be.
Her praise had been given in her attention; that
must content them.

Lady Bertram’s admiration was expressed, and
strongly too. “ It was really like being at a
play,” said she. “ I wish Sir Thomas had been

here.”

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady
Bertram, with all her incompetency and languor,
could feel this, the inference of what her niece,
alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was

elevating. .

( ( You have a great turn for acting, I am sure,
Mr. Crawford,” said her Ladyship soon afterwards,

1 1 and I will tell you what, — I think you will
have a theatre, some time or other, at your house
in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there.
I do, indeed. I think you will fit up a theatre at

your house in Norfolk.”

“Do you, ma’am?” cried he, with quickness.

“No no, that will never be. Your Ladyship is
auite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham,- oh,
iol ” And he looked at Fanny with an expressive

136

MANSFIELD PARK.

smile, which evidently meant, “ That lady will
neyer allow a theatre at Everingliam.”

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so deter¬
mined not to see it as to make it clear that the
voice was enough to convey the full meaning of
the protestation; and such a quick consciousness
pf compliment, such a ready comprehension of a
hint, he thought, was rather favorable than not.

The subject of reading aloud was further dis¬
cussed. The two young men were the only talk¬
ers; but they, standing by the fire, talked over
the too common neglect of the qualification, the
total inattention to it, in the ordinary school-sys¬
tem for boys; the consequently natural, yet in
some instances almost unnatural, degree of igno¬
rance and uncouthness of men, of sensible and
well-informed men, when suddenly called to the
necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen with¬
in their notice ; giving instances of blunders and
failures, with their secondary causes, the want of
management of the voice; of proper modulation
and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all pro¬
ceeding from the first cause, want of early atten¬
tion and habit; and Fanny was listening again
with great entertainment.

^Even in my profession,” said Edmund, with
a smile, “how little the art of reading has been
studied! how little a clear manner and good de¬
livery have been attended to! I speak rather of
Fhe past, however, than the present. There is
now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among
those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty
years ago, the larger number, to judge by their

MANSFIELD PARK.

137

performance, must have thought reading was read¬
ing, and preaching was preaching. It is different
now. The subject is more justly considered. It
is felt that distinctness ana energy may have
weight in recommending the most solid truths;
and, besides, there is more general observation
and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused
than formerly; in every congregation there is
a larger proportion who know a little of the mat¬
ter, and who can judge and criticise.”

Edmund had already gone through the service
once since his ordination; and upon this being
understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success, — questions
which being made, though with the vivacity of
friendly interest and quick taste, without any
touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which
Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, lie
had true pleasure in satisfying; and when Craw¬
ford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own
as to the properest manner in which particular
passages in the service should be delivered, show¬
ing it to be a subject on which he had thought
before, and thought with judgment, Edmund was
still more and more pleased. This would be the
way to Fanny’s heart. She was not to be won by
all that gallantry and wit and good nature to¬
gether could do; or at least she would not be won
by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of
sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious

subjects. ,

(( Our liturgy,” observed Crawford, “lias beau¬
ties which not even a careless, slovenly style of

138

MANSFIELD PARK.

reading can destroy; but it has also redundancies
and repetitions which require good reading not to
be felt. Tor myself, at least, I must confess be¬
ing not always so attentive as I ought to be,
here was a glance at Fanny, — “that nineteen times
out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer
ought to be read, and longing to have it to read
myself — Did you speak?” stepping eagerly to
Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice ; and
upon her saying, “No, ” he added: “Are you sure
you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fan¬
cied you might be going to tell me I ought to be
more attentive, and not allow my thoughts to
wander. Are not you going to tell me so?”

“No, indeed; you know your duty too well for
me to — even supposing — ”

She stopped, felt herself getting into a puzzle,
and could not be prevailed on to add another word,
not by dint of several minutes of supplication and
waiting. He then returned to his former station,
and went on as if there had been no such tender
interruption.

“A sermon well delivered is more uncommon
even than prayers well read. A sermon good in
itself is no rare thing. It is more difficult to
speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules
and trick of composition are oftener an object of
study. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly
jvell delivered, is a capital gratification. I can
never hear such a one without the greatest admi¬
ration and respect, and more than half a mind to
take orders and preach myself. There is some¬
thing in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is

MANSFIELD PARK.

139

really eloquence, which is entitled to the highest
praise and honor. The preacher who can touch
and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers,
on subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in
all common hands; who can say anything new or
striking, anything that rouses the attention, with¬
out offending the taste or wearing out the feelings
of his hearers, — is a man whom one could not (in
his public capacity) honor enough. I should like
to he such a man.”

Edmund laughed.

“ I should indeed. I never listened to a distin¬
guished preacher in my life without a sort of envy.
But then, I must have a London audience. I
could not preach hut to the educated, — to those
who were capable of estimating my composition.
And I do not know that I should be fond of preach¬
ing often, — now and then, perhaps, once or twice in
the spring, after being anxiously expected for half-
a-dozen Sundays together, — hut not for a con¬
stancy; it would not do for a constancy.

Here Fanny, who could not hut listen, involun¬
tarily shook her head; and Crawford was instantly
by her side again, entreating to know her mean¬
ing; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in
a chair, and sitting down close by her, that it was
to be a very thorough attack, that looks and un¬
dertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly
as possible into a corner, turned his hack, and took
up a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that, dear
little Fanny might he persuaded into explaining
away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of
her ardent lover, and as earnestly trying to bury

140

MANSFIELD PARK.

every sound of the business from himself in mur¬
murs of his own over the various advertisements
of “A most desirable Estate in South Wales/’
“To Parents and Guardians/’ and a “Capital
season’d Hunter.”

Fanny meanwhile, vexed with herself for not
having been as motionless as she was speechless,
and grieved to the heart to see Edmund’s arrange¬
ments, was trying, by everything in the power of
her modest, gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Craw¬
ford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries; and
he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

“ What did that shake of the head mean? ” said
he. “ What was it meant to express? Disappro¬
bation, I fear. But of what? What had I been
saying to displease you? Did you think me speak¬
ing improperly, — lightly, irreverently, on the sub¬
ject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I
was wrong. I want to be set right. Hay, nay, I
entreat you; for one moment put down your work.
What did that shake of the head mean? ”

In vain was her “Pray, sir, don’t, — pray, Mr.
Crawford,” repeated twice over; and in vain did
she try to move away. In the same low, eager
voice, and the same close neighborhood, he went
on, re-urging the same questions as before. She
grew more agitated and displeased.

How can you, sir? You quite astonish me —
1 wonder how you can - _ ”

'‘Do I astonish you? ” said he. “ Do you won-
ei s there anything in my present entreaty
that you do not understand? I will explain to you
instantly all that makes me urge you in this man.

MANSFIELD PARK.

141

ner, all that gives me an interest in what you look
and do, and excites my preseDt curiosity. I will
not leave you to wonder long.”

In spite of herself, she could not help half a
smile, hut she said nothing.

“You shook your head at my acknowledging
that I should not like to engage in the duties of a
clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that was
the word. Constancy, — I am not afraid of the
word. I would spell it, read it, write it with any¬
body. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did
you think 1 ought? ”

“Perhaps, sir,” saidFanny, wearied at last into
speaking, — “ perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity
you did not always know yourself as well as you
seemed to do at that moment.”

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any
rate, was determined to keep it up; and poor
Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an
extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken,
and that it was only a change from one object of
curiosity and one set of woi'ds to another. He had
always something to entreat the explanation of.
The opportunity was too fair. None such had oc¬
curred since his seeing her in her uncle’s room,
none such might occur again before his leaving
Mansfield. Lady Bertram’s being just on the
other side of the table was a trifle, for she might
always be considered as only half awake, and
Edmund’s advertisements were still of the first
utility.

“ Well,” said Crawford, after a course of rapid
questions and reluctant answers, “I am happier

142

MANSFIELD PARK.

than 1 was, because I now understand more clearly
your opinion of me. You think me unsteady,
easily swayed by the whim of the moment, easily
tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion,
no wonder that — But we shall see. It is not by
protestations that I shall endeavor to convince you
I am wronged, it is not by telling you that my
affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for
me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me.
They shall prove that as far as you can be deserved
by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely
my superior in merit; all that I know. You have
qualities which I had not before supposed to exist
in such a degree in any human creature. You
have some touches of the angel in you beyond what

— not merely beyond what one sees, because one
never sees anything like it, but beyond what one
fancies might be. But still I am not frightened.
It is not by equality of merit that you can be won.
That is out of the question. It is he who sees and
worships your meric the strongest, who loves you
most devotedly, that has the best right to a return.
There I build my confidence. By that right I do
and will deserve you; and when once convinced
that my attachment is what I declare it, I know
you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes,

— yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny — Nay,” seeing
her draw back displeased, “forgive me. Per¬
haps I have as yet no right — but by what other
name can I call you? Do you suppose you are
ever present to my imagination under any other?
No, it is ‘ Fanny ’ that I think of all day, and
dream of all night. You have given the name

MANSFIELD PARK.

143

such reality of sweetness, that nothing else can
now he descriptive of you.”

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any
longer, or have refrained from at least trying to
get away in spite of all the too public opposition
she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound
of approaching relief, — the very sound which she
had been long watching for, and long thinking
strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley,
of tea-board, urn, and cake-bearers, made its ap¬
pearance, and delivered her from a grievous im¬
prisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was
obliged to move. She was at liberty, she was busy,
she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again
among the number of those who might speak and
hear. But though the conference had seemed full
long to him, and though on looking at Fanny he
saw rather a flush of vexation, he inclined to hope
that so much could not have been said and listened
to without some profit to the speaker.

CHAPTER XI.

Edmund had determined that it belonged en¬
tirely to Fanny to choose whether her situation
with regard to Crawford should be mentioned be¬
tween them or not, and that if she did not lead the
way, it should never be touched on by him; but
after a day or two of mutual reserve, he was in¬
duced by his father to change his mind, and try
what his influence might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed
for the Crawfords’ departure; and Sir Thomas
thought it might be as well to make one more effort
for the young man before he left Mansfield, that
all his professions and vows of unshaken attach¬
ment might have as much hope to sustain them as
possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the
perfection of Mr. Crawford’s character in that point.
He wished him to be a model of constancy, and
fancied the best means of effecting it would be by
not trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to
engage in the business ; he wanted to know Fanny’s
feelings. She had been used to consult him in
every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to
be denied her confidence now; he hoped to be of
service to her, he thought he must be of service to
her, whom else had she to open her heart to? If

MANSFIELD PARK.

145

she -did ©ot need council, she must need (the com¬
fort of communication. Fanny estranged from
him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state
of things, — a state which he must break through,
and which he could easily learn to think she was
wanting him to break through.

“ I will speak to her, sir ; I will take the first
opportunity of speaking to her alone,” was tbe

result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir
Thomas’s information of her being at that very
time walking alone in the shrubbery, he instantly
joined her.

“Iam come to walk with you, Fanny/'’ said he;
“ shall I? ” drawing her arm within his. u It is
a long while since we have had a comfortable walk
together.”

She assented to it all rather by look -than word.
Her spirits were low.

“But, Fanny,” he presently added, “in order to
have a comfortable walk, something more is neces¬

sary than merely pacing this gravel together. You
must talk to me. I know you have something on
your mind. I know what you -are thinking of.
You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to
hear of it from everybody hut Fanny herself ? ”
Fanny, at -once agitated and dejected, replied,
“ If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there

can be nothing for me to tell.”

“Not of facts, perhaps, but of feelings, Fanny.
No one but you can tell me them. I do not mean
to press you, however. H it is not what you
yourself, I have done, I had thought it might he

a relief.”

VOL. II. — 10

146

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ I am afraid we think too differently for me to
find any relief in talking of what I feel.”

“Do you suppose that we think differently? I
have no idea of it. I dare say that on a compari¬
son of our opinions they would be found as much
alike as they have been used to be : to the point, —
I consider Crawford’s proposals as most advanta¬
geous and desirable, if you could return his affec¬
tion. I consider it as most natural that all your
family should wish you could return it; but that
as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought
in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement
between us here? ”

“Oh, no! But I thought you blamed me. I
thought you were against me. This is such a
comfort! ”

“This comfort you might have had sooner,
Fanny, had you sought it. But how could you
possibly suppose me against you? How could you
imagine me an advocate for marriage without love?
Were I even careless m general on such matters,
how could you imagine me so where your happi¬
ness was at stake?”

“My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he
had been talking to you. ”

“As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you
perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be sur¬
prised, though hardly that, for you had not had
time to attach yourself; but I think you perfectly
right. Can it admit of a question? It is disgrace¬
ful to us if it does. You did not love him, —
nothing could have justified your accepting him.”

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and
days.

MANSFIELD PARK.

147

“ So far your conduct has been faultless, and
they were quite mistaken who wished you to do
otherwise. But the matter does not end here.
Crawford’s is no common attachment; he perse¬
veres, with the hope of creating that regard which
had not been created before. This, we know, must
be a work of time. But,” with an affectionate
smile, “let him succeed at last, Fanny, let him
succeed at last. You have proved yourself upright
and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and
tender-hearted; and then you will he the perfect
model of a woman which I have always believed
you born for.”

“Oh! never, never, never; he- never will suc¬
ceed with me.” And she spoke with a warmth
which quite astonished Edmund, and which she
blushed at the recollection of herself, when she
saw his look and heard him reply, “Never,
Fanny, — so very determined and positive ! This
is not tike yourself, your rational self.

“I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully, correcting
herself “ that I think I never shall, as far as the
future can be answered for, - 1 think I never shall

return his regard.”

« I must hope better things. I am aware, more
aware than Crawford can be, that the man who
means to make yon love him (you having due
notice of his intentions) must have very up-hill
work, for there are all your early attachments and
habits in battle-array; and before lie can get your
heart for his own use, he has to unfasten it from
all the holds upon things animate and inanimate,
wWch so many years’ growth have confirmed, and

148

MANSFIELD PARK.

which are considerably tightened for the moment
by the very idea of separation. I know that the
apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will
for a time be arming you against him. I wish he
had not been obliged to tell you what he was try¬
ing for. I wish he had known you as well as I
do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have
won you. My theoretical and his practical knowl¬
edge together could not have failed. He should
have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however,
that time proving him (as I firmly believe it will)
to deserve you by his steady affection will give him
his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not. the
wish to love him, — the natural wish of gratitude.
You must have some feeling of that sort. You
must be sorry for your own indifference.”

“ We are 80 totally «nlike,” said Fanny, avoid¬
ing a direct answer, “we are so very, very differ¬
ent in all our inclinations and ways, that I consider
it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably
happy together, even if I could like him. There
never were two people more dissimilar. We have not
one taste in common. We should be miserable ”

“ You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity

” n°5 S° Str0nS', are finite enough alike.

ou have tastes m common. You have moral
and literary tastes in common. You have both

warm hearts and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny,

who that heard him read ami „ J0„ listeK ^
Shahspeare the other night, will think you un¬
fitted aS companions? You forget yourself. There
« a decided difference in your tempers, I allow!
lively, you are serious; but eo much the

MANSFIELD PARK.

149

better; his spirits will support yours. It is your
disposition to be easily dejected, and to fancy
difficulties greater than they are. His cheerful¬
ness will counteract this. He sees difficulties no¬
where; and his pleasantness and gayety will be
a constant support to you.. Your being so far un¬
like, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make
against the probability of your happiness together:
do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that
it is rather a favorable circumstance. I am per¬
fectly persuaded that the tempers had better be
unlike; I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits,
in the manners, in the inclination for much or
little company, in the propensity to talk or to be
silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition
here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to
matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes of
course; and a very close resemblance in all those
points would bo the likeliest way to produce an
extreme^. A counteraction, gentle and continual,
is the best safeguard of manners and conduct.

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts
were now. Miss Crawford’s power was all return¬
ing. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from
the hour of his coining home. His avoiding her
was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parson¬
age only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for
some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, re¬
turned to Mr. Crawford, and said : “It is not
merely in temper that I consider him as totally
unsuited to myself, — though in that respect I
think the difference between us too great, in-

150

MANSFIELD PARK.

finitely too great; his spirits often oppress me, —
but there is something in him which I object to
still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot ap¬
prove his character. I have not thought well of
him from the time of the play. I then saw him
behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly
and unfeelingly, — I may speak of it now because
it is all over, — so improperly by poor Mr. Rush-
worth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt
him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria
which — In short, at the time of the play, I
received an impression which will never be got
over.”

“My dear Fanny,” replied Edmund, scarcely,
hearing her to the end, “ let us not any of us be
judged by what we appeared at that period of gen¬
eral folly. The time of the play is a time which I
hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was
wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so
wrong as myself. Compared with me all the rest
were blameless. I wau playing the fool with my
eyes open.”

“As a bystander,” said Fanny, “perhaps I
saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr.
Rush worth was sometimes very jealous.”

Very possible. No wonder. Nothing could
be more improper than the whole business. I am
shocked whenever I think that Maria could be ca¬
pable of it; but if she could undertake the part,
we inust not be surprised at the rest.”

“Before the play, I am much mistaken if Julia
did not think he was paying her attentions. ”

“Julia! I have heard before from some one of

MANSFIELD PARK.

151

his being in love with Julia, but I could never see
anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I dc
justice to my sisters’ good qualities, I think it
very possible that they might, one or both, be
more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and
might show that desire rather more unguardedly
than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that
they were evidently fond of his society; and with
such encouragement a man like Crawford, lively
and it may be a little unthinking, might be led on
to — there could be nothing very striking, because
it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart
was reserved for you. And I must say that its
being for you has raised him inconceivably in my
opinion. It does him the highest honor; it shows
his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic
happiness and pure attachment. It proves him
unspoiled by his uncle. It proves him, in short,
everything that I had been used to wish to be¬
lieve him, and feared he was not.”

“I am persuaded that he does not think as lie
ought on serious subjects.”

“ Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon
serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal
the case. How could it be otherwise, with such
an education and adviser? Under the disadvan¬
tages, indeed, which both have had, is it not
wonderful that they should be what they are?
Crawford’s feelings, I am ready to acknowledge,
have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily,
those feelings have generally been good. You will
supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to
attach himself to such a creature, — to a woman

152

MANSFIELD PARK.

who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a
gentleness of character so well adapted to recom¬
mend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed,
with rare felicity. He will make you happy,
[Fanny, I know he will make you happy ; hut you
will make him everything.”

“I would not engage in such a chai’ge, ciied
Fanny, in a shrinking accent, — “in such an of¬
fice of high responsibility! ”

“As usual, believing yourself unequal to any¬
thing! — fancying everything too much for you!
Well, though I may not be able to persuade you
into different feelings, you will be persuaded into
them, I trust. I confess myself sincerely anxious
that you may, X have no common interest in
Crawford’s well-doing. Next to your happiness,
Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You
are aware of my having no common interest in
Crawford.”

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything
to say; and they walked on together some fifty
yards in mutual silence and abstraction, Edmund
first began again : —

“ I was very much pleased by her manner of
speaking of it yesterday, particularly pleased, be¬
cause I had not depended upon her seeing every¬
thing in so just a light. I knew she was very fond
of you, hut yet I was afraid of her not estimating
yojrr worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and
of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on
some woman of distinction or fortune. I was
afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims which
she has been too much used to hear. But it was

MANSFIELD PARK.

153

very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as
she ought. She desires the connection as warmly
as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk
about it. I should not have mentioned the sub¬
ject, though very anxious to know her sentiments;
hut I had not been in the room five minutes before
she began introducing it with all that openness of
heart and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit
and ingenuousness which are so much a part of
herself. Mrs, Grant laughed at her for her
rapidity.”

“Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?”

“ Yes, when I reached the house I found the
two sisters together by themselves; and when
once we had begun, we had not done with you,
Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in.”

“ It is about a week since I saw Miss Crawford.”

“ Yes, she laments it, yet owns it may have
been best. You will see her, however, before she
goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you
must be prepared for that. She calls herself very
angry, but you can imagine her anger. It is. the
regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks
her brother has a right to everything he may wish
for, at the first moment. She is hurt, as you
would be, for William; but she loves and esteems

you with all her heart.” .

« I knew she would be very angry with me.”

“My dearest Fanny,” cried Edmund, pressing
her arm closer to him, “do not let the idea of her
auger distress you. It is anger to be talked of
rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and
kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have

154

MANSFIELD PARK.

overheard her tribute of praise; I wish you could
have seen her countenance, when she said that you
should be Henry's wife. And I observed that she
always spoke of you as ‘ Fanny,’ which she was
never used to do ; and it had a sound of most
sisterly cordiality.”

“ And Mrs. Grant, did she say — did she speak
— was she there all the time? ”

“ Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister.
The surprise of your refusal, Fanny, seems to have
been unbounded. That you could refuse such a
man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can
understand. I said what I could for you; but in
good truth, as they stated the case — You must
prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you
can, by a different conduct; nothing else will
satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have
done. Ho not turn away from me.”

“I should have thought,” said Fanny, after a
pause of recollection and exertion, “ that every
woman must have felt the possibility of a man’s
not being approved, not being loved by some one
of her sex, at least, let him be ever so generally
agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the
world, I think it ought not to be set down as
certain that a man must be acceptable to every
woman he may happen to like himself. But even
supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all
the^claims which his sisters think he has, how was
I to be prepared to meet him with any feeling
answerable to his own? He took me wholly by
surprise. I had not an idea that his behavior to
me before had any meaning; and surely I was not

MANSFIELD PARK.

155

to be teaching myself to like him only because he
was taking what seemed very idle notice of me.
In my situation it would have been the extreme
of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr. Craw¬
ford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do,
must have thought it so, supposing he had meant
nothing. How then was I to be — to be in love
with him the moment he said he was with me?
How was I to have an attachment at his service, as
soon as it was asked for? His sisters should con¬
sider me as well as him. The higher his deserts,
the more improper for me ever to have thought of
him. And, and — we think very differently of the
nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so
very soon capable of returning an affection as this
seems to imply.”

“ My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I
know this to be the truth; and most worthy of you
are such feelings. I had attributed them to you
before. I thought I could understand you. You
have now given exactly the explanation which I
ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs.
Grant ; and they were both better satisfied, though
your warm-hearted friend was still run away with
a little, by the enthusiasm of her fondness for
Henry. I told them that you were of all human
creatures the one over whom habit had most power,
and novelty least; and that the very circumstance
of the novelty of Crawford’s addresses was against
him. Their being so new and so recent was all in
their disfavor; that you could tolerate nothing that
you were not used to; and a great deal more to the
same purpose, to give them a knowledge of youi

156

MANSFIELD PARK.

character. Miss Crawford made ns laugh by her
plans of encouragement for her brother. She meant
to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved
in time, and of having his addresses most kindly
received at the end of about ten years happy
marriage. ”

Fanny conld with difficulty give the smile that
was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt.
She feared she had been doing wrong, saying too
much, overacting the caution which she had been
fancying necessary, in guarding against one evil
laying herself open to another; and to have Miss
Crawford’s liveliness repeated to her at such a
moment and on such a subject was a bitter
aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face,
and immediately resolved to forbear all further
discussion; and not even to mention the name of
Crawford again, except as it might be connected
with what must be agreeable to her. On this
principle, he soon afterwards observed, —

“They go on Monday. You are sure, therefore,
of seeing your friend either to-morrow or Sunday.
They really go on Monday; and I was within a
trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till
that very day! I had almost promised it. What
a difference it might have made ! Those five or six
days more at Lessingby might have been felt all
my life! ”

“You were near staying there? ”

“Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had
nearly consented. Had I received any letter from
Mansfield to tell me how you were all going on, I

MANSFIELD PARK.

157

believe I should certainly have stayed; hut I knew
nothing that had happened here for a fortnight,
and felt that I had been away long enough.”

n You spent your time pleasantly there?

“ Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind
if I did not. They were all very pleasant. I
doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness
with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I

was in Mansfield again.”

“The Miss Owens, — you liked them, did not

you? ”

“ Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humored, un¬
affected girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common
female society. Good-humored, unaffected girls
will not do for a man who has been used to sensible
women. They are two distinct orders of being.
You and Miss Crawford have made me too nice.”

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wea¬
ried; he saw it in her looks, it could not be
talked away, and attempting it no more, he led her
directly, with the kind authority of a privileged
guardian, into the house.

CHAPTER XII.

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted
with all that Fanny could tell, or could leave to be
conjectured of her sentiments, and he was satisfied.
It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a
measure on Crawford’s side, and time must be given
to make the idea first familiar and then agreeable
to her. She must be used to the consideration of
his being in love with her, and then a return of
affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the con¬
versation to his father, and recommended there be¬
ing nothing more said to her, no further attempts
to influence or persuade, but that everything
should be left to Crawford’s assiduities, and the
natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Ed¬
mund’s account of Fanny’s disposition he could
believe to be just ; he supposed she had all those
feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortu¬
nate that she had; for, less willing than his son to
trust to the future, he could not help fearing that
if such very long allowances of time and habit
were necessary for her, she might not have per¬
suaded herself into receiving his addresses properly
before the young man’s inclination for paying
them were over. There was nothing to be done,
however, but to submit quietly, and hope the best.

MANSFIELD PARK.

159

The promised visit from “her friend,” as Ed¬
mund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable
threat to Eanny, and she lived in continual terror
of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so
little scrupulous of what she said, and in another
light so triumphant and secure, she was in every
way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure,
her penetration, and her happiness were all fear¬
ful to encounter; and the dependence of having
others present when they met, was Fanny’s only
support in looking forward to it. She absented
herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram,
kept away from the East room, and took no soli¬
tary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to
avoid any sudden attack.

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-
room, with her aunt, when Miss Crawford did
come; and the first misery over, and Miss Craw¬
ford looking and speaking with much less parti¬
cularity of expression than she had anticipated,
Eanny began to hope there would be nothing worse
to be endured than an half-hour of moderate agita¬
tion. But here she hoped too much; Miss Craw¬
ford was not the slave of opportunity. She was
determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said
to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, “I must
speak to you for a few minutes somewhere,”
words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her
pulses and all her nerves. Denial was impossible.
Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary,
made her almost instantly rise and lead the way
out of the room. She did it with wretched feel
Vpgs, but it was inevitable.

160

MANSFIELD PARK.

They were no sooner in the hall than all re¬
straint of countenance was over on Miss Craw¬
ford’s side. She immediately shook her head at
Fanny with arch yet affectionate reproach, and
taking her hand, seemed hardly able to help be¬
ginning directly. She said nothing, however,
but, “Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall
have done scolding you,” and had discretion
enough to reserve the rest till they might be se¬
cure of having four walls to themselves. Fanny
naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to
the apartment which was now always fit for com¬
fortable use; opening the door, however, with a
most aching heart, and feeling that she had a
more distressing scene before her than ever that
spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to
burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden
change in Miss Crawford’s ideas, — by the strong
effect on her mind which the finding herself in
the East room again produced.

“Ha!” she cried, with instant animation,
“am I here again? The East room. Once only
was I in this room before; ” and after stopping to
look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that
had then passed, she added: “Once only before.
Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your
cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You
were our audience and prompter. A delightful
rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were,
just1 in this part of the room; here was your
cousin, here was I, here were the chairs. Oh,
why will such things ever pass away?”

Happily for her companion, she wanted no an-

MANSFIELD PARK.

161

swer. Her mind was entirely self-engrossed.
She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

“ The scene we were rehearsing was so very
remarkable! The subject of it so very — very —
what shall I say? He was to be describing and
recommending matrimony to me. I think I see
him now, trying to be as demure and composed
as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.

‘ When two sympathetic hearts meet in the mar¬
riage state, matrimony may be called a happy
life.’ I suppose no time can ever wear out the
impression I have of his looks and voice, as he
said those words. It was curious, very curious,
that we should have such a scene to play! If I
had the power of recalling any one week of my
existence, it should be that week, that acting
week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be
that; for I never knew such exquisite happiness
in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did!
Oh, it was sweet beyond expression. But alas!
that very evening destroyed it all. That very
evening brought your most unwelcome uncle.
Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet,
Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disre¬
spectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did
hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice
now. He is just what the head of such a family
should be. Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I
now love you all.” And having said so, with
a degree of tenderness and consciousness which
Fanny had never seen in her before, and now
thought only too becoming, she turned away for a
moment to recover herself. “I have had a little
von. ii. — 11

MANSFIELD PARK.

162

fit. since I came into this room, as you may per¬
ceive,” said she, presently, with a playful smile,
“but it is over now; so let us sit down and be com¬
fortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I
came fully intending to do, I have not the heart for
it when it comes to the point.” And embracing her
very affectionately, “Good, gentle Fanny! when
I think of this being the last time of seeing you
for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impos¬
sible to do anything but love you.”

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen any¬
thing of this, and her feelings could seldom with¬
stand the melancholy influence of the word “ last. ”
She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more
than she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet
further softened by the sight of such emotion, hung
about her with fondness, and said: “I hate to
leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable
where I am going. Who says we shall not be
sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are
born to be connected, and those tears convince
me that you feel it too, dear Fanny.”

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part,
said: “But you are only going from one set of
friends to another. You are going to a very par¬
ticular friend.”

“ Yes, very true; Mrs. Fraser has been my in¬
timate friend for years. But I have not the least
inclination to go near her. I can think only of the
friends I am leaving, — my excellent sister, your¬
self, and the Bertrams in general. You have all so
much more heart among you than one finds in the
world at large. You all give me a feeling of being

MANSFIELD PARK.

163

able to trust and confide in you; which, in common
intercourse, one knows nothing of. I wish I had
settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after
Easter, a much better time for the visit; but now
I cannot put her off. And when I have done with
her, I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, be¬
cause she was rather my most particular friend of
the two; but I have not cared much for her these
three years.”

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes
silent, each thoughtful, — Fanny meditating on
the different sorts of friendship in the world, Mary
on something of less philosophic tendency. She
first spoke again.

“How perfectly I remember my resolving to
look for you upstairs; and setting off to find my
way to the East room, without having an idea
whereabouts it was! How well I remember what
I was thinking of as I came along; and my look¬
ing in and seeing you here, sitting at this table at
work ; and then your cousin’s astonishment, when
he opened the door, at seeing me here! To be
sure, your uncle’s returning that very evening!
There never was anything quite like it.”

Another short fit of abstraction followed; when,
shaking it off, she thus attacked her companion:

“Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie!
Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking
of you. Oh that I could transport you for a short
time into our circle in town, that you might un¬
derstand how your power over Henry is thought of
there! Oh the envyings and heart-burnings of
dozens and dozens! the wonder, the incredulity

164

MANSFIELD PARK.

that will he felt at hearing what you have done!
For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero of an
old romance, and glories in his chains. You should
come to London to know how to estimate your con¬
quest. If you were to see how he is courted, and
how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well
aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs.
Fraser in consequence of his situation with you.
When she conies to know the truth, she will, very
likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for
there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife,
whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry
to take. Oh, she has been trying for him to such
a degree! Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you
cannot have an idea of the sensation that you w ill
be occasioning, of the curiosity there will be to
see you, of the endless questions I shall have to
Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for-

answer ! w

ever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you
do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish
Margaret were married, for my poor friend s sake,
for I look upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy
as most other married people. And yet it was a
most desirable match for Janet at the time. Me
were all delighted. She could not do otherwise
than accept him, for he was rich, and she had

nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and exi-
geant, and wants a young woman, a beautiful
young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as
himself. And my friend does not manage him
well;, she does not seem to know how to make
the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation
which, to, say nothing worse, is certainly very ill-

MANSFIELD PARK,

165

bred. In their house I shall call to mind the com
jugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect.
Even Dr. Grant does show a thorough confidence
in my sister, and a certain consideration for her
judgment, which makes one feel there is attach-
ment; hut of that I shall see nothing with the
Frasers. I shall he at Mansfield, forever, Fanny.
My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas Bertram as a
husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor
Janet has been sadly taken in-, and yet there was
nothing improper on her side: she did not run
into the match inconsiderately; there was no want
of foresight. She took three days to consider of
his proposals, and during those three days asked
the advice of everybody connected with her, whose
opinion was worth having; and especially applied
to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the
world made her judgment very generally and de¬
servedly looked up to by all the young people of
her acquaintance; and she was decidedly m favor
of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were a
security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so
much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very
nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that
horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much
sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rush worth, but much worse
looking, and with a blackguard character. I had
mv doubts at the time about her being right, for
he has not even the air of a gentleman, and now I
am sure she was wrong. By the by. Flora Ross
was dying for Henry the first winter she came out.
But were I to attempt to tell you of all the women
whom 1 have known to be m love with him, I

166

MANSFIELD PARK.

should never have done. It is you only, you, in¬
sensible Fanny, who can think of him with any¬
thing like indifference. But are you so insensible
as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are
not.”

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny’s
face at that moment as might warrant strong sus¬
picion in a predisposed mind.

“Excellent creature! I will not tease you.
Everything shall take its course. But, dear Fanny,
you must allow that you were not so absolutely
unprepared to have the question asked as your
cousin fancies. It is not possible but that you
must have had some thoughts on the subject, some
surmises as to what might be. You must have
seen that he was trying to please you by every
attention in his power. Was not he devoted to
you at the ball? And then before the ball, the
necklace! Oh, you received it just as it was meant.
You were as conscious as heart could desire. I
remember it perfectly.”

“Do you mean, then, that your brother knew
of the necklace beforehand? Oh, Miss Crawford,
that was not fair.”

“Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely,
his own thought. I am ashamed to say that it had
never entered my head; but I was delighted to act
on his proposal, for both your sakes.”

^ “ I will not say,” replied Fanny, “that I was
not half afraid at the time of its being so; for
there was something in your look that frightened
me — but not at first — I was as unsuspicious of it
at first! — indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as

MANSFIELD PARK.

167

that I sit here. And had I had an idea of it,
nothing should have induced me to accept the
necklace. As to your brother’s behavior, certainly
I was sensible of a particularity; I had been sen¬
sible of it some little time, perhaps two or three
weeks ; but then I considered it as meaning noth¬
ing. I put it down as simply being his way,
and was as far from supposing as from wishing
him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had
not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer
of what was passing between him and some part of
this family in the summer and autumn. I was
quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see
that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries
which did mean nothing.”

“Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then
been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc
he might be making in young ladies’ affections. I
have often scolded him for it, but it is his only
fault; and there is this to be said, that very few
young ladies have any affections worth caring for.
And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has
been shot at by so many, of having it in one’s power
to pay off the debts of one’s sex! Oh, I am sure it
is notin woman’s nature to refuse such a triumph.’

Fanny shook her head. “ I cannot think well
of a man who sports with any woman’s feelings;
and there may often be a great deal more suffered

than a stander-by can judge of.”

“I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to
your mercy; and when he has got you at Ever in g-
ham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But
this I will say, — that his fault, the liking to make

168

MANSFIELD PARK

girls a little in love with him, is not half so danger¬
ous to a wife’s happiness as a tendency to .fall m
love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
And I do seriously and truly believe that he is at¬
tached to you in a way that he never was to ally
woman before, — that he loves you with all his
heart, and will love you as nearly forever as pos¬
sible. If any man ever loved a woman forever, I
think Henry will do as much for you.”

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had
nothing to say.

“I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been
happier,” continued Mary, presently, “than when
he had succeeded in getting your brother’s com¬
mission.”

She had made a. sure push at Fanny’s feelings
here.

“ Oh, yes. How very, very kind of him! ”

“ I know he must have exerted himself very
much, for I know the parties he had to move. The
Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favors;
and there are so many young men’s claims to be
attended to in the same way that a friendship
and energy not very determined is easily put by.
What a happy creature William must be! I wish
we could see him.”

Poor Fanny’s mind was thrown into the most dis¬
tressing of all its varieties. The recollection of
,what had been done for William was always the
most powerful disturber of every decision against
Mr. Crawford ; and she sat thinking deeply of it till
Mary, who had been first watching her compla¬
cently and then musing on something else, suddenly

MANSFIELD PARK.

169

called her attention by saying: “ I should like to sit
talking with you here all day, hut we must not for¬
get the ladies below ; and so good-by, my dear, my
amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall
nominally part in the breakfast-parlor, I must take
leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing
fox a happy reunion, and trusting that when we
meet again, it will be under circumstances which
may open our hearts to each other without any
remnant or shadow of reserve.”

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation
of manner accompanied these words.

“ I shall see your cousin in town soon, — he talks
of being there tolerably soon ; and Sir Thomas, I
dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eld¬
est cousin and the flush worths and Julia I am sure
of meeting again and again, and all but you. I
have two favors to ask, Fanny : one is your corre¬
spondence, — you must write to me; and the other,
that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make
her amends for my being gone.”

The first at least of these favors Fanny would
rather not have been asked ; but it was impossible
for her to refuse the correspondence, it was impos¬
sible for her even not to accede to it more readily
than her own judgment authorized. There was no
resisting so much apparent affection. Her dispo¬
sition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
treatment; and from having hitherto known so
little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss
Crawford’s. Besides, there was gratitude towards
her for having made their tete-a-tete so much less
painful than her fears had predicted.

170

MANSFIELD PARK.

It was over, and she had escaped without re¬
proaches and without detection. Her secret was
still her own; and while that was the case, she
thought she could resign herself to almost every¬
thing. .

In the evening there was another . parting.

Henry Crawford came, and sat some time with
them; and her spirits not being previously in the
strongest state, her heart was softened for a while
towards him, — because he really seemed to feel.
Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said any¬
thing. He was evidently oppressed; and Fanny
must* grieve for him, though hoping she might
never see him again till he were the husband
of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he
would take her hand, he would not be denied it :
he said nothing, however, or nothing that she
heard; and when he had left the room, she was
better pleased that such a token of friendship had
passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.

\

CHAPTER XIII.

Mb. Cbawfokd gone, Sir Thomas’s next object
was that he should he missed; and he entertained
great hope that his niece would find a blank in the
loss of those attentions which at the time she had
felt or fancied an evil. She had tasted of conse¬
quence in its most flattering form; and he did
hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in
her mind. He watched her with this idea, but
he could hardly tell with what success. He
hardly knew whether there were any difference in
her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and
retiring that her emotions were beyond his dis¬
crimination. He did not understand her, he felt
that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund
to tell him how she stood affected on the present
occasion, and whether she were more or less happy
than she had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptom of regret,
and thought his father a little unreasonable in
supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was that Craw¬
ford’s sister, the friend and companion who had
been so much to her, should not he more visibly
regretted. He wondered that Eanny spoke so sel

172

MANSFIELD PARK.

dom of her, and had so little voluntarily to say of
her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and com¬
panion, who was now the chief hane of Fanny’s
comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future
fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was
determined the brother’s should be, if she could
have hoped her return thither to be as distant as
she was much inclined to think his, she would
have been light of heart indeed; but the more she
recollected and observed, the more deeply was she
convinced that everything was now in a fairer
train for Miss Crawford’s marrying Edmund than
it had ever been before. On his side the inclina¬
tion was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His
objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed
all done away, — nobody could tell how; and the
doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally
got over, —and equally without apparent reason.
It could only be imputed to increasing attach¬
ment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to
love, and such love must ..rite them. He was
to go to town as soon as some business relative
to Thornton Lacey was completed, — perhaps within
a fortnight, — -lie talked of going, he loved to talk
of if; and when once w7itli her again, Fanny could
not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must he as
certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feel¬
ings still remaining which made the prospect of it
most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed
independently of self.

In their vei*y last conversation Miss Crawford,
in spite of some amiable sensations and much per.

MANSFIELD PARK.

173

sonal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford, still
shown a mind led astray and bewildered, and with¬
out any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet
fancying itself light. She might love, but she
did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment.
Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling
in common between them ; and she may be for¬
given by older sages for looking on the chance
of Miss Crawford’s future improvement as nearly
desperate, for thinking that if Edmund’s influence
in this season of love had already done so little in
clearing her judgment and regulating her notions,
his worth would be finally wasted on her even in
years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any
young people so circumstanced, and impartiality
would not have denied to Miss Crawford’s nature
that participation of the general nature of women
which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the
man she loved and respected as her own. But as
such were Fanny’s persuasions, she suffered very
much from them, and could never speak of Miss
Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own
hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right,
by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to
see the effect of the loss of power and consequence
on his niece’s spirits, and the past attentions of
the lover producing a craving for their return; and
he was soon afterwards able to account for his no
yet completely and indubitably seeing all this by
the prospect of another visitor, whose approach lie
could allow to be quite enough to support the

174

MANSFIELD PARK.

spirits he was watching. "W illiam had obtained a
ten days’ leave of absence to be given to North¬
amptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of
lieutenants, because the latest made, to show his
happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to
show his uniform there too, had not cruel custom
prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the
uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund
conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of
seeing it, all its own freshness and all the fresh¬
ness of its wearer’s feelings must be worn away.
It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for
what can be more unbecoming or more worthless
than the uniform of a lieutenant who has been a
lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made
commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund,
till his father made him the confidant of a scheme
which placed Fanny’s chance of seeing the second
lieutenant of H. M. S. “Thrush” in all his glory
in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her
brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little
time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir
Thomas, in one of his dignified nursings, as a
■"lght and desirable measure; hut before he abso¬
lutely made up his mind, he consulted his son.
Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing
but what was right. The thing was good in it¬
self, and could not he done at a better time ; and
he had no doubt of it being highly ag oeable
to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir
Thomas; and a decisive “Then so it shall be”

MANSFIELD PARK.

175

closed that stage of the business, — Sir Thomas
retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction
and views of good over and above what lie had
communicated to his son; for his prime motive in
sending her away had very little to do with the
propriety of her seeing her parents again, and
nothing at all with any idea of making her happy.
He certainly wished her to go willingly, hut he as
certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home
before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence
from the elegances and luxuries of Mansfield Park
would bring her mind into a sober state, and in¬
cline her to a juster estimate of the value of that
home, of greater permanence and equal comfort,
of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece’s un¬
derstanding, which he must consider as at present
diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in
the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disor¬
dered her powers of comparing and judging. Her
father’s house would, in all probability, teach hei
the value of a good income; and he trusted that
she would be the wiser and happier woman all her
life for the experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she
must have had a strong attack of them when she
first understood what was intended, . when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the
parents and brothers and sisters, from whom she
had been divided almost half her life, of return¬
ing for a couple of months to the scenes of her
infancy, with William for the protector and com¬
panion of her journey; and the certainty of com

176

MANSFIELD PARK.

tinning to see William to the last hour of his
remaining on land. Had she ever given way to
hursts of delight, it must have been then, for
she was delighted; but her happiness was of a
quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort, and though never
a great talker, she was always more inclined to
silence when feeling most strongly. At the mo¬
ment she could only thank and accept. After¬
wards, when familiarized with the visions of
enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak
more largely to kVblliam and Edmund of what she
felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness
that could not be clothed in words. The remem¬
brance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what
she had suffered in being torn from then), came
over her with renewed strength, and it seemed
as if to be at home again would heal every pain
that had since grown out of the separation. To be
in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,
and more loved by all than she had ever been
before ; to feel affection without fear or restraint ;
to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded
her ; to be at peace from all mention of the Craw¬
fords, safe from every look which could be fancied
a reproach on their account, — this was a prospect
to fee dwelt on with a fondness that could be but
half acknowledged.

Edmund, too, — to be two months from him (and
perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence
three) must do her good. At a distance, unas
sailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from
the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart and
striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able

MANSFIELD PARK.

177

to reason herself into a properer state ; she should
he able to think of him as in London, and arrang¬
ing everything there, without wretchedness. What
might have been hard to hear at Mansfield was to
become a Slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt
Bertram’s being comfortable without her. She
was of use to no one else; but there she might be
missed to a degree that she did not like to think
of; and that part of the arrangement was*, indeed,
the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and
what only he could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When
he had really resolved on any measure, he could
always carry it through ; and now by dint of long
talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on
the, duty of Fanny’s sometimes seeking her family,
he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it
rather from submission, however, than conviction,
for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little
more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought
to go, and therefore that she must. In the calm¬
ness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial
flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his be¬
wildering statements, she could not acknowledge
any necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father
and mother who had done without her so long,
while she was so useful to herself. And as to the
not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discus¬
sion, was the point attempted to he proved, she set
herself very steadily against admitting any such
thing.

Sir Thomas, had appealed to her reason, com
VOL. II. — 12

MANSFIELD PARK.

178

science, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and
demanded it of her goodness and self-command as
such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her
that Fanny could he very well spared (she being
ready to give up all her own time to her as re¬
quested) , and, in short, could not really be wanted
or missed.

“That may he, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s
reply. “I dare say you are very right, but I am
sure I shall miss her very much.”

The next step was to communicate with Ports¬
mouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her
mother’s answer, though short, was so kind, a few
simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a
joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to
confirm all the daughter’s views of happiness in
being with her, — convincing her that she should
now find a warm and affectionate friend in the
“mamma ” who had certainly shown no remarkable
fondness for her formerly; hut this she could easily
suppose to have been her own fault or her own
fancy. She had probably alienated love by the
helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or
been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than
any one among so many could deserve. Now, when
she knew better how to be useful and how to forbear,
and when her mother could he no longer occupied
by the incessant demands of a house full of little
children, there would he leisure and inclination
for every comfort, and they should soon be what
mother and daughter ought to he to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his
sister. It would he the greatest pleasure to him to

MANSFIELD PARK.

179

have her there to the last moment before he sailed,
and perhaps find her there still when he came in
from his first cruise. And, besides, he wanted her
so very much to see the Thrush before she went
out of harbor (the Thrush was certainly the finest
sloop in the service). And there were several im¬
provements in the dock-yard, too, which he quite
longed to show her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at
home for a while would he a great advantage to
everybody.

u I do not know how it is,” said he, “ hut we
seem to want some of your nice ways and orderli¬
ness at my father’s. The house is always in con¬
fusion. You will set things going in a better way,

I am suxe. You will tell my mother how it all
ought to be, and you will he so useful to Susan,
and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love
and mind you. How right and comfortable it will

all he ! ”

By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there
remained hut a very few days more to be spent at
Mansfield; and for part of one of those days the
voung travellers were in a good deal of alarm on
the subject of their journey, for when the mode of
it came to he talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that
all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law s money
was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints
for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny, they
were to travel post, when she saw Sir Thomas
actually give William notes for the purpose, she
was struck with the idea of there being room for a
third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a

180

MANSFIELD PARK.

strong inclination to go with them, — to go and
see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her
thoughts. She must say that she had more than
half a mind to go with the young people : it would
be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her
poor, dear sister Price for more than twenty years ;
and it would be a help to the young people in their
journey to have her older head to manage for them;
and she could not help thinking her poor dear
sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to
come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the
idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey
Avould be destroyed at once. With woful counte¬
nances they looked at each other. Their suspense
lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to en¬
tourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle
the matter by herself ; and it ended to the infinite
joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection
that she could not possibly be spared from Mans¬
field Park at present; that she was a great deal too
necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her
to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even
for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice
every other pleasure to that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her that though
taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be
hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own ex¬
penses back again. So her poor dear sister Price
was left to all the disappointment of her missing
such an opportunity; and another twenty years’
absence) perhaps, begun.

MANSFIELD PARK.

181

Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth
journey, this absence of Fanny’s. He, too, had a
sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park, as well as his
hunt. He had intended about this time to be
going to London, but he cotild not leave his father
and mother just when everybody else of most im¬
portance to their comfort was leaving them; and
with an effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed
for a week or two longer a journey which he was
looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his
happiness forever.

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already
that she must know everything. It made the sub¬
stance of one other confidential discourse about
Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected
from feeling it to be the last time in which Miss
Crawford’s name would ever he mentioned between
them with any remains of liberty. Once after-
Wards she was alluded to by him. Lady Bertram
had been telling her niece, in the evening, to write
to her soon and often, and promising to be a good
correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a conven
ient moment, then added, in a whisper, “ And I
shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
worth writing about, anything to say, that I think
you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so
soon from any other quarter.” Had she doubted
bis meaning while she listened, the glow in his
face, when she looked up at him, would have been

decisive. „

For this letter she must try to arm herself.

That a letter from Edmund should be a subject of
terror! She began to feel that she had not yet

182

MANSFIELD PARK.

gone through all the changes of opinion and sen¬
timent which the progress of time and variation of
circumstances occasion in this world of changes.
The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet
been exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going, as she did, willingly
and eagerly, the last evening at Mansfield Park
must still be wretchedness. Her heart was com¬
pletely sad at parting. She had tears for every room
in the house, much more for every beloved inhab¬
itant. She clung to her aunt, because she would
miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with
struggling sobs, because she had disjrieased him;
and as for Edmund, she could neither speak nor
look nor think, when the last moment came with
him; and it was not till it was over that she knew
he was giving her the affectionate farewell of a
brother.

All this passed over night, for the journey was
to begin very early in the morning; and when the
small diminished party met at breakfast, William
and Fanny were talked of as already advanced
one stage.

CHAPTER XIY.

The novelty of travelling and the happiness of
being with William soon produced their natural
effect on Fanny’s spirits, when Mansfield Park was
fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage
was ended and they were to quit Sir Thomas’s car¬
riage, she was able to take leave of the old coach¬
man, and send back proper messages, with cheerful
looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister,
there was no end. Everything supplied an amuse¬
ment to the high glee of William’s mind, and he
was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their
higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they
did not begin, in praise of the Thrush, conjectures
how she would be employed, schemes for an action
with some superior force, which — supposing the
first lieutenant out of the way, and William was not
very merciful to the first lieutenant — was to give
himself the next step as soon as possible, or specula¬
tions upon prize money, which was to be generously
distributed at home, with only the reservation of
enough to make the little cottage comfortable in
which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle
and latter life together.

Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they in¬
volved Mr. Crawford, made no part of their con*

184

MANSFIELD PARK.

versation. "William knew what had passed, and
fr0m liis heart lamented, that his sistei s feelings
should be so cold towards a man whom he must
consider as the first of human characters j hut he
was of an age to be all for love, and therefore un¬
able to blame; and knowing her wish on the sub¬
ject, he would not distress her by the slightest
allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet for¬
gotten by Mr. Crawford. She had heard repeatedly
from his sister within the three weeks which had
passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each
letter there had been a few lines from himself,
warm and determined like his speeches. It was a
correspondence which Fanny found quite as un¬
pleasant as she had feared. Miss Crawford’s style
of writing, lively and affectionate, was itself an
evil, independent of what she was thus forced into
reading from the brother’s pen, for Edmund would
never rest till she had read the chief of the letter to
him ; and then she had to listen to his admiration
of her language, and the warmth of her attachments.
There had, in fact, been so much of message, of
allusion, of recollection, so much of Mansfield in
every letter, that Fanny could not hut suppose it
meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced
into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a cor¬
respondence which was bringing her the addresses
of t^ie man she did not love, and obliging her
to administer to the adverse passion of the man
she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her
present removal promised advantage. When no
longer under the same roof with Edmund, she

MANSFIELD PARK.

185

trusted that Miss Crawford would have no motive
for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble,
and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would
dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hun¬
dred others, Fanny proceeded in her journey
safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as
could rationally he hoped in the dirty month of
February. They entered Oxford, but she could
take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund’s college
as they passed along, and made no stop anywhere,
till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable
meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the
enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an
early hour; and with no events and no delays
they regularly advanced, and were in the environs
of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for
Fanny to look around her and wonder at the new
buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and en¬
tered the town; and the light was only beginning
to fail, as, guided by William’s powerful voice,
they were rattled into a narrow street leading
from the High Street, and drawn up before the
door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. 1 lice.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter, all hope
and apprehension. The moment they stopped, a
trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in wait¬
ing for them at the door, stepped forward, and
more intent on telling the news than giving them
any help, immediately began with, “The Thrush
is gone out of harbor, please, sir, and one of the
officers has been here to — ” She was inter

186

MANSFIELD PARK.

rupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who,
rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside,
and while William was opening the chaise-door
himself, called out: “You are just in time. We
have been looking for you this half-hour. The
Thrush went out of harbor this morning. I saw
her. It was a beautiful sight. And they think
she will have her orders in a day or two. And
Mr. Campbell was here at four o’clock to ask for
you: he has got one of the Thrush’s boats, and is
going off to her at six, and hoped you would be
here in time to go with him.”

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her
out of the carriage, was all the voluntary notice
which this brother bestowed; but he made no ob¬
jection to her kissing him, though still entirely
engaged in detailing further particulars of the
Thrush’s going out of harbor, in which he had a
strong right of interest, being to commence liis
career of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment, and Fanny was in the nar¬
row entrance-passage of the house, and in her
mother’s arms, who met her there with looks of
true kindness, and with features which Fanny
loved the more because they brought her aunt
Bertram’s before her; and there were her two
sisters, — Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen,
and Betsey, the youngest of the family, about five,
— both glad to see her in their way, though with
no advantage of manner in receiving her. But
manner Fanny did not want. Would they but
love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlor so small that

MANSFIELD PARK.

187

her first conviction was of its being only a pas¬
sage-room to something better, and she stood for
a moment expecting to be invited on; but when
she saw there was no other door, and that there
were signs of habitation before her, she called
back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved
lest they should have been suspected. Her mother,
however, could not stay long enough to suspect
anything. She was gone again to the street door,
to welcome William. “Oh, my dear William,
how glad I am to see you ! But have you heard
about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbor al¬
ready, three days before we had any thought of it ;
and I do not know what I am to do about Sam’s
things, they will never be ready in time; for she
may have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes
me quite unawares. And now you must be ott
for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite
in a worry about you; and now what shall we do.

I thought to have such a comfortable evening
with you, and here everything comes upon me at

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that
everything was always for the best and making
light of his own inconvenience in being oblige

to hurry away so soon. ,

« To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed

in harbor, that I might have sat a few hours with
you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore,
Ld better go off at once and there is no help or
it. Whereabouts does the Thrush he at Spit
head? Hear the Canopus? But no matter,
here’s Fanny in the parlor, and why should we

188

MANSFIELD PARK.

stay in the passage? Come, mother, you have
hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet.”

In they both came; and Mrs. Price, having
kindly kissed her daughter again, and commented
a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as
travellers.

“Poor dears! how tired you must both he! and
now, what will you have? I began to think you
would never come. Betsey and I have been watch¬
ing for you this half-hour. And when did you get
anything to eat? And what would you like to
have now ? I could not tell whether you would be
for some meat or only a dish of tea after your
journey, or else I would have got something ready.
And now I am afraid Campbell will be here be¬
fore there is time to dress a steak, and we have no
butcher at hand. It is very inconvenient to have
no butcher in the street. We were better off in
our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea
as soon as it can be got.”

They both declared they should prefer it to any¬
thing. “Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the
kitchen, and see if Rebecca has put the water on •
and tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as
she can. I wish we could get the hell mended —
but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.”

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to show her
abilities before her fine new sister.

<( “Dfar n]e’” continued the anxious mother,
what a sad fire we have got, and I dare say you
are both starved with cold. Draw your chair
nearer, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca

MANSFIELD PARK.

189

has been about. I am sure I told her to bring
some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should
have taken care of the fire.”

“I was upstairs, mamma, moving my things,”
said Susan, in a fearless, self-defending tone,
which startled Fanny. “You know you had but
just settled that my sister Fanny and I should
have the other room; and I could not get Rebecca
to give me any help.”

Further discussion was prevented by various
bustles : first, the driver came to be paid ; then
there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca,
about the manner of carrying up his sister’s trunk,
which he would manage all his own way; and,
lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud
voice preceding him, as with something of the oath
kind he kicked away his son’s portmanteau and
his daughter’s bandbox in the passage, and called
out for a candle. No candle was brought, however,
and he walked into the room.

Fanny, with doubting feelings, had risen to
meet him, but sank down again on finding herself
undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of.
With a friendly shake of his son’s hand, arid an
eager voice, he instantly began: “Ha! welcome
back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard
the news? The Thrush went out of harbor this
morning. Sharp is the word, you see. By G — ,
you are just in time. The doctor has been here
inquiring for you : he has got one of the boats,
and is to be off for Spithead by six, so you had
better go with him. I have been to Turner’s
about your mess ; it is all in a way to be done. I

190

MANSFIELD PARK.

should not wonder if you had your orders to-mor-
row: hut you cannot sail with this wind, if you
are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh
thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the west¬
ward, with the Elephant. By G — , I wish you
may. But old Scholey was saying, just now, that
he thought you would be sent first to the Texel.
Well, well, we are ready, whatever happens. But
by G — , you lost a fine sight by not being here in
the morning to see the Thrush go out of harbor.
I would not have been out of the way for a thou¬
sand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast¬
time, to say she had slipped her moorings and was
coming out. I jumped up, and made hut two
steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect
beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lies at
Spithead, and anybody in England would take her
for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform
two hours this afternoon looking at her. She lies
close to the Endymion, between her and the Cleo¬
patra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk.”

“Ha!” cried William, “that’s just where I
should have put her myself. It ’s the best berth
at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir, here is
Fanny,” turning and leading her forward; “ it is
so dark you do not see her.”

With an acknowledgment that he had quite for¬
got ^er, Mr. Price now received his daughter;
and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he sup¬
posed would he wanting a husband soon, seemed
very much inclined to forget her again.

Fanny shrunk hack to her seat, with feelings

MANSFIELD PARK.

191

sadly pained by bis language and bis smell of
spirits ; and he talked on only to his son, and only
of the Thrush, though William, warmly interested
as he was in that subject, more than once tried
to make his father think; of F anny, and her long
absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was
obtained; but as there was still no appearance of
tea, nor, from Betsey’s reports from the kitchen,
much hope of any under a considerable period,
William determined to go and change his dress,
and make the necessary preparations for his re¬
moval on board directly, that he might have his
tea in comfort afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged
and dirty, about eight and nine years old, rushed
into it just released from school, and coming
eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the
Thrush was gone out of harbor, — Tom and Charles.
Charles had been born since Fanny’s going away;
but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now
felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. Both
were kissed very tenderly; but Tom she wanted to
keep by her, to try to trace the features of the
baby she had loved and talked to, of his infant pref¬
erence of herself. Tom, however, had no mind
for such treatment: he came home, not to stand
and be talked to, but to run about and make a
noise; and both boys had soon burst away from
her, and slammed the parlor door till her temples

8iCll6d.*

She had now seen all that were at home; there
remained only two brothers between herself and

192

MANSFIELD PARK.

Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office
in London, and the other midshipman on board
an Indiaman. But though she had seen all the
members of the famity, she had not yet heard all
the noise they could make. Another quarter of
an hour brought her a great deal more. William
was soon calling out, from the landing-place of
the second story, for his mother and for Rebecca.
He was in distress for something that he had left
there, and did not find again. A key was mis¬
laid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat,
and some slight but essential alteration of his
uniform waistcoat, which he had been promised
to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up
to defend themselves, all talking together, but
Rebecca loudest; and the job was to be done, as
well as it could, in a great hurry, — William trying
in vain to send Betsey down again, or keep her
from being troublesome where she was; the whole
of which, as almost every door in the house was
open, could be plainly distinguished in the parlor,
except when drowned at intervals by the superior
noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles ‘chasing each
other up and down stairs, and tumbling about
and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of
the house, the thinness of the walls, brought
everything so close to her that, added to the
fatigue of her journey and all her recent agita¬
tion, she hardly knew how to bear it. Within the
room all was tranquil enough; for Susan having
disappeared with the others, there were soon only

MANSFIELD PARK.

193

her father and herself remaining; and he taking
out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a neigh¬
bor, applied himself to studying it, without seem¬
ing to recollect her existence. The solitary candle
was held between himself and the paper, without
any reference to her possible convenience; but she
had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light
screened from her aching head, as she sat in be¬
wildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas ! it was not such
a home, she had not such a welcome, as — She
checked herself; she was unreasonable. What
right had she to be of importance to her family?
She could have none, so long lost sight of! Wil¬
liam’s concerns must be dearest, — they always
had been, — and he had every right. Yet to have
so little said or asked about herself, — to have
scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did
pain her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends
who had done so much, — the dear, dear friends!
But here one subject swallowed up all the rest.
Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the
Thrush must be now pre-eminently interesting.
A day or two might show the difference. She
only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not
have been so at Mansfield. Yo, in her uncle’s
house there would have been a consideration of
times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a pro¬
priety, an attention towards everybody which there

was not here. ,

The only interruption which thoughts like these

received for nearly half an hour was from a sud
den burst of her father’s, not at all calculated tu
VOL. II. — 13

194

MANSFIELD PARK.

compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of
thumping and hallooing in the passage, he ex¬
claimed: “ Devil take those young dogs! How
they are singing out! Ay, Sam’s voice louder
than all the rest! That boy is fit for a boatswain.
Holla — you there — Sam — stop your confounded
pipe, or I shall be after you.”

This threat was so palpably disregarded that
though within five minutes afterwards the three
boys all burst into the room together and sat down,
Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything
more than their being for the time thoroughly
fagged, which their hot faces and panting breaths
seemed to prove, — especially as they were still
kicking each other’s shins, and hallooing out at
sudden starts immediately under their father’s eye.

The next opening of the door brought something
more welcome; it was for the tea-things, which she
had begun almost to despair of seeing that even¬
ing. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior
appearance informed Fanny, to her great surprise,
that she had previously seen the upper servant,
brought m everything necessary for the meal;
Susan looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and
glanced at her sister, as if divided between the
agreeable triumph of showing her activity and use¬
fulness, -and the dread of being thought to demean
herself by such an office. - She had been into the
kitchen, she said, “ to hurry Sally and help make
the toast and spread the bread and butter, or she
did not know when they should have got tea, and
she was sure^her sister must want something after

MANSFIELD PARK.

195

Fanny was very thankful. She could not hut
own that she should be very glad of a little tea,
and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
pleased to have the employment all to herself; and
with only a little unnecessary hustle, and some few
injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in
better order than she could, acquitted herself very
well. Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshed as
her body; her head and heart were soon the better
for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,
sensible countenance; she was like William, and
Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition

and good-will towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William re¬
entered, followed not far behind by his mother and
Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant s uniform,
looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more
graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over Ins
face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from
her seat, looked at him for a moment m speechless ad¬
miration, and then threw her arms round Ins neck to
sob out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon re¬
covered herself; and wiping away her tears, was
able to notice end admire all the etnlong parts »
his dress, listening with reviving spints to
cheerful hopes of being on shore some part of every
day before they sailed, and even of getting her to

SS"°t in Mr Campbell, the

surgeon of the Thrush, a very well behaved young
man who came to call for his friend, and for whom
The”; was with some contrivance found a chan, and

196

MANSFIELD PARK.

with some hasty washing of the young tea-mater’s,
a cup and saucer; and after another quarter of an
hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise
rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and
boys at last all in motion together, the moment
came for setting off; everything was ready, Wil¬
liam took leave, and all of them were gone, — for
the three boys, in spite of their mother’s entreaty,
determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell
to the sally-port ; and Mr. Price walked off at the
same time to carry back his neighbor’s newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped
for; and accordingly, when Rebecca had been pre¬
vailed on to carry away the tea-things, and Mrs.
Price had walked about the room some time
looking for a shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last
hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small
party of females were pretty well composed, and
the mother having lamented again over the im¬
possibility of getting Sam ready in time, was at
leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the
friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began : but one of the earliest —
ow did her sister Bertram manage about her
servants Was she as much plagued as herself to
get tolerable servants — soon led her mind away
from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own
domestic grievances; and the shocking character
all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she be¬
lieved her own two were the very worst, engrossed
r complete^. The Bertrams were all forgotten

Susln L I ' faUltS °f Eebecca» a^mst whom
Wn had also much to depose, and little Bet

MANSFIELD PARK.

197

sey a great deal more, and who did seem so thor¬
oughly without a single recommendation that
Fanny could not help modestly presuming that
her mother meant to part with her when her year

was up.

“ Her year! ” cried Mrs. Price; “I am sure I
hope I shall he rid of her before she has stayed a
year, for that will not be up till November. Ser¬
vants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Ports¬
mouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them
more than half a year. I have no hope of ever
being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca,

I should only get something worse. And yet I do
not think I am a very difficult mistress to please;
and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there
is always a girl under her, and I often do half the

work myself.” _ .

Fanny was silent; hut not from being convinced

that there might not he a remedy found for some of
these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey, she
could not hut think particularly of another sister,
a very pretty little girl, whom she had left there
not much younger when the went into Northamp¬
tonshire, who had died a few years afterwards.
There had been something remarkably amiable
about her. Fanny in those early days had pre¬
ferred her to Susan; and when the news of her
death had at last reached Mansfield, had for a short
time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey
brought the image of little Mary back again, hut
she would not have pained her mother by alluding
to her for the world. While considering her with
these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was

198

MANSFIELD PARK.

ing out something to catch her eyes, meaning to
screen it at the same time from Susan’s.

“What have you got there, my love?” said
Fanny; “come and show it to me.”

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claim¬
ing it as her own, and trying to get it away; but
the child ran to her mother’s protection, and Susan
could only reproach, which she did very warmly,
and evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her
side. “ It was very hard that she was not to have
her own knife: it was her own knife; little sister
Mary had left it to her upon her death-bed, and
she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago.
But mamma kept it from her, and was always let¬
ting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would
be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her
own, though mamma had promised her that Bet¬
sey should not have it in her own hands.”

Fanny was quite snocked. Every feeling of
duty, honor, and tenderness was wounded by her
sister’s speech and her mother’s reply.

Now, Susan,” cried Mrs. Price in a complain¬
ing voice, “now how can you be so cross? You
are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish
you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Bet¬
sey, how cross Susan is to you! But you should
not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to
the drawer, lou know I told you not to touch it,
because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it
another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought
it would be such a bone of contention when she
gave it me to keep, only two hours before she died.
Poor little soul! she could but just speak to

MANSFIELD PARK.

199

be heard, and she said so prettily, '‘Let sister
Susan have my knife, mamma, when I am dead
and buried.’ Poor little dear! she was so fond of
it, Panny, that she would have it lie by her in
bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of
her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell,
only six weeks before she was taken for death.
Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken
away from evil to come. My own Betsey,” fond¬
ling her, “you have not the luck of such a good
godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think
of such little people as you.”

Panny had indeed nothing to convey from Aunt
Norris, but a message to say she hoped her god¬
daughter was a good girl, and learnt her book.
There had been at one moment a slight murmur in
the drawing-room at Mansfield Park, about sending
her a Prayer-book; but no second sound had been
heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however,
had gone home and taken down two old Prayer-
books of her husband with that idea; but, upon
examination, the ardor of generosity went off. One
was found to have too small a print for a child s
eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome for her

to carry about. _

Panny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thank¬
ful to accept the first invitation of going to bed;
and before Betsey had finished her cry at being al¬
lowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in
honor of sister, she was off, leaving all below in
confusion and noise again, — the boys begging for
toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum
and water, and Rebecca never where she ought

to be.

200

MANSFIELD PARK.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the con¬
fined and scantily furnished chamber that she was
to share with Susan. The smallness of the rooms
above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of
the passage and staircase* struck her beyond her
imagination. She soon learnt to think with re¬
spect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park,
in that house reckoned too small for anybody’s
comfort.

v

CHAPTER XV.

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece’s feel¬
ings, when she wrote her first letter to her aunt,
he would not have despaired; for though a good
night’s rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon
seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet
state of the house, from Tom and Charles being
gone to school, Sam on some project of his own,
and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to
express herself cheerfully on the subject of home,
there were still to her own perfect consciousness
many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen
only half that she felt before the end of a week, he
would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and
been delighted with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappoint¬
ment. In the first place, William was gone.
The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had
changed, and he was sailed within four days from
their reaching Portsmouth; and during those days
she had seen him only twice, in a short and hur'
ried way, when he had come ashore on duty.
There had been no free conversation, no walk on
the ramparts, no visit to the dock-yard, no ac¬
quaintance with the Thrush, — nothing of all that
they had planned and depended on. Everything
in that quarter failed her, except William’s affec-

202

MANSFIELD PARK.

tion. His last thought on leaving home was for
her. He stepped back again to the door to say :
“ Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and
not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge
you, take care of Fanny.”

William was gone; and the home he had left her
in was — Fanny could not conceal it from herself
— in almost every respect the very reverse of what
she could have wished. It was the abode of noise,
disorder, and impropriety. Hobody was in their
right place, nothing was done as it ought to be.
She could not respect her parents as she had hoped.
On her father her confidence had not been san¬
guine; but he was more negligent of his family,
his habits were worse, and his manners coarser
than she had been prepared for. He did not want
abilities; but he had no curiosity, and no informa¬
tion beyond his profession; he read only the news¬
paper and the navy-list; he talked only of the
dock-yard, the harbor, Spithead, and the Mother-
bank; he swore and he drank, he was dirty and
gross. She had never been able to recall anything
approaching to tenderness in his former treatment
of herself. There had remained only a general
impression of roughness and loudness; and now
he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the
object of a coarse joke.

\Her disappointment in her mother was greater;
there she had hoped much, and found almost noth-
ing. Every flattering scheme of being of conse¬
quence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price
was not unkind; but instead of gaining on her
affection and confidence, and becoming more and

MANSFIELD PARK.

203

more dear, her daughter never met with greater
kindness from her than on the first day of her ar¬
rival. The instinct of nature was soon satisfied,
and Mrs. Price’s attachment had no other source.
Her heart and her time were already quite full;
she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on
Panny. Her daughters never had been much to
her. She was fond of her sons, especially of Wil¬
liam; but Betsey was the first of her girls whom
she had ever much regarded. To her she was most
injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride;
Betsey her darling; and John, Bichard, Sam, Tom,
and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal
solicitude, alternately her worries and her com¬
forts. These shared her heart; her time was given
chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days
were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy
without getting on, always behindhand and la¬
menting it, without altering her ways; wishing to
be an economist, without contrivance or regularity ;
dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make
them better, and whether helping or reprimanding
or indulging them, without any power of engaging
their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more
resembled Lady Bertram than Mrs. Norris. She
was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.
Norris’s inclination for it or any of her activity.
Her disposition was naturally easy and indolent,
like Lady Bertram’s; and a situation of similar
affluence and do-nothingness would have been
much more suited to her capacity than the exer¬
tions and self-denials of the one which her impru-

204

MANSFIELD PARK.

dent marriage had placed her in. She might have
made just as good a woman of consequence as Lady
Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more
respectable mother of nine children on a small
income.

Much of all this Fanny could not hut he sensible
of. She might scruple to make use of the words,
but she must and did feel that her mother was a
partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern,
who neither taught nor restrained her children,
whose house was the scene of mismanagement and
discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no
talent, no conversation, no. affection towards her¬
self ; no curiosity to know her better, no desire of
her friendship, and no inclination for her company
that could lessen her sense of such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to
appear above her home, or in any way disqualified
or disinclined, by her foreign education, from con¬
tributing her help to its comforts, and therefore
set about working for Sam immediately, and by
working early and late, with perseverance and
great despatch, did so much that the hoy was
shipped off at last, with more than half his linen
ready. She had great pleasure in feeling, her use¬
fulness, but could not conceive how they would
have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overhearing as he was, she rather
regretted when he went, for he was clever and in¬
telligent, and glad to be employed in any errand
in the town; and though spurning the remoii-
strances of Susan, given as they were, though
very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and

MANSFIELD PARK.

205

powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced
by Fanny’s services and gentle persuasions; and
she found that the best of the three younger ones
was gone in him, — Tom and Charles being at least
as many years as they were his juniors distant
from that age of feeling and reason which might
suggest the expediency of making friends, and of
endeavoring to he less disagreeable. Their sis¬
ter soon despaired of making the smallest impres¬
sion on them; they were quite untamable by any
means of address which she had spirits or time to
attempt. Every afternoon brought a return of
their riotous games all over the house; and she
very early learnt to sigh at the approach of Sat¬
urday’s constant half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoilt child, trained up to think
the alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with
the servants at her pleasure, and then encour¬
aged to report any evil of them, she, was almost
as ready to despair of being able to love or assist;
and of Susan’s temper she had many doubts. Her
continual disagreements with her mother, her rash
squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance
with Betsey, were at least so distressing to
Fanny that, though admitting they were by no
means without provocation, she feared the disposi¬
tion that could push them to such length must he
far from amiable, and ^r9m affording any repose
to, herself.

Such was the home which was to, put Mansfield
out of her head, and teach her to tlpplr of her
cousin Edmund with mo4erated feelings. On the
contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield,

206

MANSFIELD PARK

its beloved inmates, its happy ways. Everything
where she now was, was in full contrast to it. The
elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and per¬
haps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of
Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every
hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything
opposite to them here.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame
and temper delicate and nervous like Fanny’s, an
evil which no superadded elegance or harmony
could have entirely atoned for. It was the great¬
est misery of all. At Mansfield no sounds of
contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no
tread of violence was ever heard; all proceeded in
a regular course of cheerful orderliness; everybody
had their due importance; everybody’s feelings
were consulted. If tenderness could be ever sup¬
posed wanting, good sense and good breeding sup¬
plied its place; and as to the little irritations
sometimes introduced by Aunt Norris, they were
short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of
water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless
tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was
noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps,
her mother’s, which resembled the soft mono¬
tony of Lady Bertram’s, only worn into fretful¬
ness). Whatever was wanted wras hallooed for,
at|d the servants hallooed out their excuses from
the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging,
the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done
without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody
could command attention when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared

MANSFIELD PARK.

207

to her before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted
to apply to them Dr. Johnson’s celebrated judg¬
ment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say that
though Mansfield Park might have some pains,
Portsmouth could have no pleasures.

CHAPTER XYI.

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear
from Miss Crawford now at the rapid rate in
which their correspondence had begun. Mary s
next letter was after a decidedly longer interval
than the last; hut she was not right in supposing
that such an interval would he felt a great relief
to herself. Here was another strange revolution
of mind! She was really glad to receive the letter
when it did come. In her present exile from good
society, and distance from everything that had
been wont to interest her, a letter from one belong¬
ing to the set where her heart lived, written with
affection, and some degree of elegance, was thor¬
oughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing
engagements was made in excuse for not having
written to her earlier.

“ And now that I have begun, she continued, my
letter will not be worth your reading, for there will be no
little offering of love at the end, no three or four lines
paqsionne'es from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for
Henry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham
ten days ago, or perhaps he only pretended the call for
the sake of being travelling at the same time that you
were. But there he is; and by the by his absence may
sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister s in
writing, for there has been no ‘ Well, Mary, when do

MANSFIELD PARK.

209

you write to F army ? ’ ‘ Is not it time for you to write
to Fanny?’ to spur me on. At last, after various at¬
tempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, ‘dear Julia
and dearest Mrs. Rusliworth ; ’ they found me at home
yesterday, and we were glad to see each other again.
We seemed very glad to see each other, and I do really
think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say.
Shall I tell you how Mrs. Iiusliworth looked when your
name was mentioned? I did not use to think her want¬
ing in self-possession, but she had not quite enough for
the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in
the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken
of. There was no recovering the complexion from the
moment that I spoke of ‘ F anny,’ and spoke of her as a
sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth’s day of good looks
will come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th.
Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the
best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years
ago, when it was Lady Laseelles’s, and prefer it to almost
any I know in London, and certainly she will then feel
— to use a vulgar phrase — that she has got her penny¬
worth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded
hgr such a house. I hope she will recollect it, and be
satisfied, as well as she may, with moving the queen of a
palace, though the king may appear best in the back¬
ground; and as I have no desire to tease her, I shall
never force your name upon her again. She will grow
sober by degrees. From all that I hear and guess, Baron
Wildenh aim’s attentions to Julia continue, but I do not
know that he has any serious encouragement. She ought
to do better. A poor honorable is no catch, and I cannot
imagine aoy liking in the case ; for take away his rants,
and the poor Baron has nothing. What a difference a
vowel makes ! — if his rents were but equal to his rants !
Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance,
by parish duties. There may be some old woman at
Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling to
VOL. II. — 14

210

MANSFIELD FARE.

fancy myself neglected for a young one Adieu my
dear sweet Fanny! This is a long letter from London,
write me a pretty one in reply, to gladden Henry s eyes
when he comes back, and send me an account of all the
dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake.

There was great food for meditation in this
letter, and chiefly for unpleasant meditation; and
yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it con¬
nected her with the absent, it told her of people
aud things about whom she had never felt so
much curiosity as now, and she would have been
glad to have been sure of such a letter every week.
Her correspondence with her aunt Bertram was
her only concern of higher interest.

_A_s for any society in Portsmouth that could at
all make amends for deficiencies at home,^ there
were none within the circle of her father s and
mother’s acquaintance to afford her the smallest
satisfaction : she saw nobody in whose favor she
could wish to overcome her own shyness and re¬
serve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the
women all pert, everybody underbred ; and she gave
as little contentment as she received from introduc¬
tions either to old or new acquaintance. The
young ladies who approached her at first with some
respect, in consideration of her coming from a
baronet’s family, were soon offended by what they
terhied “airs;” for as she neither played on the
pianoforte nor wore fine pelisses, they could, on
further observation, admit no right of superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received
for the evils of home, the first which her judgment
could entirely approve, and which gave any promise

MANSFIELD PARK.

211

of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan,
and a hope of being of service to her. Susan had
always behaved pleasantly to herself; but the de¬
termined character of her general manners had
astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least a
fortnight before she began to understand a disposi¬
tion so totally different from her own. Susan saw
that much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it
right. That a girl of fourteen, acting only on her
own unassisted reason, should err in the method
of reform was not wonderful; and Fanny soon
became more disposed to admire the natural light
of the mind which could so early distinguish
justly, than to censure severely the faults of con¬
duct to which it led. Susan was only acting on
the same truths and pursuing the same system
which her own judgment acknowledged, but which
her more supine and yielding temper would have
shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be useful,
where she could only have gone away and cried;
and that Susan was useful she could perceive, —
that things, bad as they were, would have been
worse but for such interposition, and that both her
mother and Betsey were restrained from some ex¬
cesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had
in point of reason the advantage, and never was
there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.
The blind fondness which was forever producing
evil around her she had never known. There was
no gratitude for affection past or present to make
her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradu-

212

MANSFIELD PARK.

ally placed Susan before her sister as an object
of mingled compassion and respect. That her
manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong,
her measures often ill-chosen and ill-timed, and
her looks and language very often indefensible,
Fanny could not cease to feel ; but she began to
hope they might be rectified. Susan, she found,
looked up to her and wished for her good opinion;
and new as anything like an office of authority
was to Fanny, new as it was to imagine herself
capable of guiding or informing any one, she did
resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and
endeavor to exercise for her advantage the juster
notions of what was due to everybody, and what
would be wisest for herself, which her own more
favored education had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and
use of it, originated in an act of kindness by Su¬
san, which, after many hesitations of delicacy,
she at last worked herself up to. It had very
early occurred to her that a small sum of money
might perhaps restore peace forever on the sore
subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now
was continually ; and the riches which she was in
possession of herself, her uncle having given her
£10 at parting, made her as able as she was will¬
ing to be generous. But she was so wholly un¬
used io confer favors, except on the very poor, so
unpractised in removing evils or bestowing kind¬
nesses among her equals, and so fearful of appear¬
ing to elevate herself as a great lady at home,
that it took some time to determine that it would
not be unbecoming in her to make such a present.

MANSFIELD PARK.

213

It was made, however, at last; a silver knife was
bought for Betsey, and accepted with great de¬
light, its newness giving it every advantage over
the other that could be desired; Susan was es¬
tablished in the full possession of her own.
Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had
got one so much prettier herself, she should never
want that again; and no reproach seemed con¬
veyed to the equally satisfied mother, which Fanny
had almost feared to be impossible. The deed
thoroughly answered; a source of domestic altei-
cation was entirely done away, and it was the
means of opening Susan’s heart to her, and gi\-
ing her something more to love and be interested
in. Susan showed that she had delicacy: pleased
as she was to be mistress of property which she
had been struggling for at least two years, she
yet feared that her sister’s judgment had been
against her, and that a reproof was designed her
for having so struggled as to make the purchase
necessary for the tranquillity of the house.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her
fears, blamed herself for having contended so
warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understand¬
ing the worth of her disposition, and perceiving
how fully she was inclined to seek her good opin¬
ion and refer to her judgment, began to feel
again the blessing of affection, and to entertain
the hope of being useful to a mind so much in
need of help and so much deserving it. She
gave advice, — advice too sound to be resisted by
a good understanding, and given so mildly and
considerately as not to irritate an imperfect tern-

214

MANSFIELD PARK.

per, — and she had the happiness of observing its
good effects not unfrequentl y ; more was not ex¬
pected by one who, while seeing all the obliga¬
tion and expediency of submission and forbearance,
saw also with sympathetic acuteness of feeling all
that must be hourly grating to a girl like Susan.
Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became
— not that Susan should have been provoked into
disrespect and impatience against her better knowl¬
edge — but that so much better knowledge, so
many good notions, should have been hers at all ;
and that, brought up in the midst of negligence
and error, she should have formed such proper
opinions of what ought to be, — she who had had
no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix
her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a
material advantage to each. By sitting together
upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the disturb¬
ance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan
learnt to think it no misfortune to be quietly
employed. They sat without a fire; but that was
a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suf¬
fered the less because reminded by it of the East
room. It was the only point of resemblance. In
space, light, furniture, and prospect there was
nothing alike in the two apartments; and she
often^ heaved a sigh at the remembrance of all her
books and boxes, and various comforts there.
By degrees the girls came to spend the chief of
the morning upstairs, at first only in working
and talking; but after a few days the remem¬
brance of the said books grew so potent and stirnu*

MANSFIELD PARK.

215

lative that Fanny found it impossible not to try
for books again. There were none in her father’s
house; hut wealth is luxurious and daring, and
some of hers found its way to a circulating li¬
brary. She became a subscriber; amazed at be¬
ing anything in propria persona, amazed at
her own doings in every way : to be a renter, a
chooser of books, and to be having any one’s
improvement in view in her choice! But so it
was. Susan had read nothing; and Fanny longed
to give her a share in her own first pleasures, and
inspire a taste for the biography and poetry which
she delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury
some of the recollections of Mansfield, which were
too apt to seize her mind if her fingers only were
busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might
be useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing
Edmund to London, whither, on the authority of
her aunt’s last letter, she knew he was gone. She
had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised
notification was hanging over her head. The post¬
man’s knock within the neighborhood was begin¬
ning to bring its daily terrors; and if reading
could banish the idea for even half an hour, it was
something gained.

CHAPTER XVII.

A week was gone since Edmund might be sup¬
posed in town, and Eanny had heard nothing of
him. There were three different conclusions to
be drawn from his silence, between which her
mind was in fluctuation, - — each of them at times
being held the most probable, — either his going
had been again delayed, or he had yet procured no
opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he
was too happy for letter-writing.

One morning about this time, Eanny having
now been nearly four weeks from Mansfield, — a
point which she ne"er failed to think over and
calculate every day, — as she and Susan were pre¬
paring to remove, as usual, upstairs, they were
stopt by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt
they could not avoid, from Rebecca’s alertness in
going to the door, — a duty which always inter¬
ested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman’s voice; it was a voice that
Eanny was just turning pale about when Mr.
Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when
really called upon; and she found that she had
been able to name him to her mother, and recall
her remembrance of the name, as that of “William’s
friend,” though she could not previously have be-

MANSFIELD PARK.

217

lieved herself capable of uttering a syllable at such
a moment. The consciousness of his being known
there only as William’s friend was some support.
Having introduced him, however, and being all re¬
seated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit
might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied
herself on the point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor,
who had at first approached her with as animated a
countenance as ever, was wisely and kindly keep¬
ing his eyes away, and giving her time to recover,
while he devoted himself entirely to her mother,
addressing her, and attending to her with the
utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time
with a degree of friendliness, of interest at least,
which was making his manner perfect.

Mrs. Price’s manners were also at their best.
Warmed by the sight of such a friend to her son,
and regulated by the wish of appearing to ad¬
vantage before him, she was overflowing with
gratitude, artless maternal gratitude, which could
not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out, which she
regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered
enough to feel that she could not regret it; for to
her many other sources of uneasiness was added the
severe one of shame for the home in which he
found her. She might scold herself for the weak¬
ness, but there was no scolding it away. She was
ashamed, and she would have been yet more
ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs.
Price could never tire; and Mr. Crawford was as
warm in his commendation as even her heart could

218

MANSFIELD PARK.

wish. She felt that she had never seen so agree¬
able a man in her life 5 and was only astonished to
find that so great and so agreeable as he was, he
should he come down to Portsmouth neither.1 on a
visit to the Port-admiral nor the Commissioner,
nor yet with the intention of going over to the
island nor of seeing the dock-yard. Nothing of
all that she had been used to think of as the proof
of importance or the employment of wealth, had
brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it
late the night before, was come for a day or two,
was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met
with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance
since his arrival, but had no object of that kind
in coming.

By the time he had given all this information,
it was not unreasonable to suppose that Fanny
might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had
spent half an hour with his sister, the evening
before his leaving London; that she had sent her
best and kindest love, but had had no time for
writing; that he thought himself lucky in seeing
Mary for even half an hour, having spent scarcely
twenty-four hours in London, after his return from
Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin
Edmund was in town, had been in town, he under¬
stood^, a few days; that he had not seen him him¬
self, but that he was well, and left them all well
at Mansfield, and was to dine, as yesterday, with
the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-
mentioned circumstance; nay, it seemed a relief to

MANSFIELD PARK.

219

her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the
words, “ Then by this time it is all settled,” passed
internally, without more evidence of emotion than
a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a
subject in which her interest was most apparent,
Crawford began to hint at the expediency of an
early walk. “It was a lovely morning, and at
that season of the year a fine morning so often
turned off, that it was wisest for everybody not to
delay their exercise; ” and such hints producing
nothing, he soon proceeded to a positive recom¬
mendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters, to
take their walk without loss of time. Now they
came to an understanding. Mrs. Price, it ap¬
peared, scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except
on a Sunday: she owned she could seldom, with
her large family, find time for a walk. “'Would
she not, then, persuade her daughters to take
advantage of such weather, and allow him the
pleasure of attending them?” Mrs. Price was
greatly obliged and very complying. “Her
daughters were very much confined, — Portsmouth
was a sad place, — they did not often get out,
and she knew they had some errands in the town
which they would be very glad to do.” . And the
consequence was that Fanny, strange as it was,
strange, awkward, and distressing, found her¬
self and Susan within ten minutes walking
towards the High Street with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon con¬
fusion ; for they were hardly in the High Street,
before they met her father, whose appearance

220

MANSFIELD PARK.

was not the better from its being Saturday. He
stopt; and ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny
was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford.
She could not have a doubt of the manner in which
Mr. Crawford must be struck. He must be
ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must soon
give her up, and cease to have the smallest in¬
clination for the match; and yet, though she had
been so much wanting his affection to be cured,
this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad
as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a
young lady in the United Kingdoms who would
not rather put up with the misfortune of being
sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him
driven away by the vulgarity of her nearest
relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his
future father-in-law with any idea of taking him
for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and
to her great relief, discerned) her father was a
very different man, a very different Mr. Price in
his behavior to this most highly respected stranger,
from what he was in his own family at home. His
manners now, though not polished, were more than
passable ; they were grateful, animated, manly ;
his expressions were those of an attached father
and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well
in the»ppen air, and there was not a single oath to
be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment
to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and be the
consequence what it might, Fanny’s immediate
feelings were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen’s civilities

MANSFIELD PARK.

221

was an offer of Mr. Price’s to take Mr. Crawford
into the dock-yard, which Mr. Crawford, desirous of
accepting as a favor what was intended as such,
though he had seen the dock-yard again and again,
and hoping to he so much the longer with Fanny,
was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of,
if the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue;
and as it was somehow or other ascertained or in¬
ferred, or at least acted upon, that they were not at
all afraid, to the dock-yard they wTere all to go;
and hut for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have
turned thither directly, without the smallest con¬
sideration for his daughters’ errands in the Pligh
Street. He took care, however, that they should he
allowed to go to the shops they came out expressly
to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny
could so little bear to excite impatience, or be
waited for, that before the gentlemen, as they stood
at the door, could do more than begin upon the
last naval regulations, or settle the number of
three-deckers now in commission, their companions
were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dock-yard
at once, and the walk would have been conducted
(according to Mr. Crawford’s opinion) in a singu¬
lar manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire
regulation of it, as the two girls, he found, would
have been left to follow, and keep up with them
or not, as they could, while they walked on to¬
gether at their own hasty pace. He was able to in¬
troduce some improvement occasionally, though by
no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely
would not walk away from them; and at any cross-

222

MANSFIELD PARK.

ing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling
out, “Come, girls, come! Pan, come! Sue, take
care of yourself, keep a sharp lookout ! ’ ’ he would
give them his particular attendance.

Once fairly in the dock-yard, he began to reckon
upon some happy intercourse with Fanny, as they
were very soon, joined by a brother lounger of Mr.
Price’s, who was come to take his daily survey of
how things went on, and who must prove a far more
worthy companion than himself; and after a time
the two officers seemed very well satisfied in going
about together and discussing matters of equal and
never-failing interest, while the young people sat
down upon some timbers in the yard, or found a seat
on hoard a vessel in the stocks which they all went
to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want
of rest. Crawford could not have wished her more
fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could
have wished her sister away. A quick-looking
girl of Susan’s age was tne very worst third in the
world, — totally different from Lady Bertram, — all
eyes and eai's; and there was no introducing the
main point before her. He must content himself
with being only generally agreeable, and letting
Susan have her share of entertainment, with the
indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the
better informed and conscious Fanny. Norfolk
was what he had mostly to talk of; there he had
been some time, and everything tliei'e was l'ising
in importance from his present schemes. Such a
man could come from no place, no society, without
importing something to amuse; his journeys and
his acquaintance were all of use, and Susan was

MANSFIELD PARK.

223

entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny,
somewhat more was related than the accidental
agreeableness of the parties he had been in. For
her approbation, the particular reason of his going
into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year,
was given. It had been real business, relative to
the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a
large and (he believed) industrious family was at
stake. He had suspected his agent of some under¬
hand dealing, — of meaniug to bias him against the
deserving, — and he had determined to go himself,
and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case.
He had gone, had done even more good than he
had foreseen, had been useful to more than his
first plan had comprehended, and was now able to
congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in
performing a duty he had secured agreeable rec¬
ollections for his own mind. He had introduced
himself to some tenants whom he had never seen
before; he had begun making acquaintance with
cottages whose very existence, though on his own
estate, had been hitherto unknown to him. This
was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was
pleasing to hear him speak so properly ; here he had
been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend of
the poor and oppressed! Nothing could be more
grateful to her; and she was on the point of giv¬
ing him an approving look, when it was all fright¬
ened off by his adding a something too pointed of
his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a
guide in every plan of utility or charity for Ever-
ingham, a somebody that would make Everingham
and all about it a dearer object than it had ever
been yet.

224

MANSFIELD PARK.

She turned away, and wished he would not say
such things. She was willing to allow he might
have more good qualities than she had been wont
to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of
his turning out well at last; but he was' and must
ever be completely unsuited to her, and ought not
to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Ever-
insrham, and that it would be as well to talk of
something else, and turned to Mansfield. He
could not have chosen better; that was a topic to
bring back her attention and her looks almost in¬
stantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear
or to speak of Mansfield. How so long divided
from everybody who knew the place, she felt it
quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it,
and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise
of its beauties and comforts, and by his honorable
tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify
her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speak¬
ing of her uncle as all that was clever and good,
and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet
tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield him¬
self; he said so; he looked forward with the hope
of spending much, very much of his time there, —
always there or in the neighborhood. He particu¬
larly built upon a very happy summer and autumn
there this year; he felt that it would be so; he
depended upon it; a summer and autumn infi¬
nitely superior to the last, — as animated, as di¬
versified, as social, but with circumstances of
superiority indescribable.

MANSFIELD PARK.

225

“Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,” he
continued, — “what a society will be comprised in
those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a
fourth may he added, — some small hunting-box in
the vicinity of everything so dear; for as to any
partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Ber¬
tram once good-humoredly proposed, I hope I
foresee two objections, — two fair, excellent,
irresistible objections to that plan.”

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when
the moment was passed, could regret that she had
not forced herself into the acknowledged compre¬
hension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged
him to say something more of his sister and Ed¬
mund. It was a subject which she must learn to
speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it
would soon be quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that
they wished or had time for, the others were ready
to return; and in the course of their walk back,
Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for
telling Fanny that his only business in Ports¬
mouth was to see her, that he was come down for
a couple of days on her account and hers only, and
because he could not endure a longer total separa-
tion. She was sorry, really sorry; and yet, in
spite of this and the two or three other things
which she wished he had not said, she thought
him altogether improved since she had seen him;
he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive
to other people’s feelings than he had ever been at
Mansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable, —
so near being agreeable; his behavior to her father

VOL. TI. — 15

226

MANSFIELD PARK.

could not offend, and there was something particu¬
larly kind and proper in the notice he took of
Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished
the next day over, she wished he had come only
for one day; hut it was not so very bad as she
would have expected, the pleasure of talking of
Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for
another pleasure, and one of no trivial kind. Her
father asked him to do them the honor of taking
his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for
only one thrill of horror, before he declared him¬
self prevented by a prior engagement. He was
engaged to dinner already both for that day and
the next : he had met with some acquaintance at
the Crown who would not he denied; he should
have the honor, however, of waiting on them again
on the morrow, etc., and so they parted, — Fanny
in a state of actual felicity from escaping so
horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party
and see all their deficiencies would have been
dreadful ! Rebecca’s cookery and Rebecca’s wait¬
ing, and Betsey’s eating at table without restraint,
and pulling everything about as she chose, were
what Fanny herself was not yet enough inured to,
for her often to make a tolerable meal. She was
nice only from natural delicacy, but he had been
brought up in a school of luxury and epicurism.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Prices were just setting off for cliurch tlie
next day when Mr. Crawford appeared again. He
came, not to stop, but to join them: he was
asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel,
which was exactly what he had intended; and
they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Na¬
ture had given them no inconsiderable share of
beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always
brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sun¬
day she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady
Bertram’s sister, as she was hut too apt to look.
It often grieved her to the heart to think of the
contrast between them, — to think that where Na¬
ture had made so little difference circumstances
should have made so much, and that her mother,
as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her
junior, should have an appearance so much more
worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly, so
shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable
and tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming
abroad with a fine family of children, feeling a
little respite of her weekly cares, and only discom-

228

MANSFIELD PARK.

posed if she saw her hoys run into danger, or
Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide; hut Mr.
Crawford took care not to he divided from the
female branch, and after chapel he still continued
with them, and made one in the family party on
the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ram¬
parts every fine Sunday throughout the year, al¬
ways going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place :
there she met her acquaintance, heard a little
news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth
servants, and wound up her spirits for the six
days ensixing.

Thither they now went, Mr. Crawford most
happy to consider the Miss Prices as his peculiar
charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other — there was no saying how,
Fanny could not have believed it — hut he was
walking between them with an arm of each under
his, and she did not know how to prevent or put
an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a
time, hut yet there were enjoyments in the day
and in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really
March; hut it was April in its mild air, brisk
soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded
for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful
under the influence of such a sky, the effects of
the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at
Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-
varying hues of the sea now at high water, dancing

MANSFIELD PARK.

229

in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with
so fine a sound produced altogether such a com¬
bination of charms for Fanny as made her gradu¬
ally almost careless of the circumstances under
which she felt them. Nay, had she been without
his arm, she would soon have known that she
needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours’
saunter of this kind, coming as it generally did
upon a week’s previous inactivity. Fanny was
beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from
her usual regular exercise : she had lost ground as
to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but
for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather,
would soon have been knocked up now.

The loveliness of the day and of the view, he felt
like herself. They often stopped with the same
sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall some
minutes to look and admire; and considering he
was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that
he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature,
and very well able to express his admiration. She
had a few tender reveries now and then, which he
could sometimes take advantage of to look in her
face without detection; and the result of these
looks was that though as bewitching as ever, her
face was less blooming than it ought to be. She
said she was very well, and did not like to be sup¬
posed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was
convinced that her present residence could not be
comfortable, and therefore could not be salutary
for her, and he was growing anxious for her being
again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and
his in seeing her, must be so much greater.

230

MANSFIELD PARK.

“ You have been here a month, I think?” said
he.

“No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks
to-morrow since I left Mansfield.”

“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner.
I should call that a month.”

“I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.”

“And it is to he a two months’ visit, is not
it?”

“Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I
suppose it will not be less.”

“And how are you to be conveyed hack again?
Who comes for you ? ”

“ I do not know. I have heard nothing about
it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may he to stay
longer. It may not be convenient for me to be
fetched exactly at the two months’ end.”

After a moment’s reflection Mr. Crawford re¬
plied: “ I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know
its faults towards you. i know the danger of your
being so far forgotten as to have your comforts
give way to the imaginary convenience of any
single being in the family. I am aware that you
may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas
cannot settle everything for coming himself, or
sending your aunt’s maid for you, without involv-
ing the slightest alteration of the arrangements
whic^i he may have laid down for the next quarter
of a year. This will not do. Two months is an
ample allowance, I should think six weeks quite
enough. — I am considering your sister’s health,”
said he, addressing himself to Susan, “which I
think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavorable

MANSFIELD PARK.

231

to. She requires constant air and exercise. When
.you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will
agree that she does, and that she ought never to be
long banished from the free air and liberty of the
country. If therefore,” turning again to Fanny,
“you find yourself growing unwell, and any diffi¬
culties arise about your returning to Man'sfield —
without waiting for the two months to be ended
— that must not be regarded as of any consequence,
if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable
than usual, and will only let my sister know it,
give her only the slightest hint, she and I will im¬
mediately come down, and take you back to Mans¬
field. You know the ease and the pleasure with
which this would be done. You know all that
would be felt on the occasion.”

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

“I am perfectly serious,” he replied, “as you
perfectly know. And I hope you will not be
cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed you shall not, — it shall not be in your
power; for so long only as you positively say in
every letter to Mary, ‘ I am well, ’ — and I know
you cannot speak or write a falsehood, — so long
only shall you be considered as well.”

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and
distressed to a degree that made it impossible for
her to say much, or even to be certain of what she
ought to say. This was towards the close of their
walk. He attended them to the last, and left them
only at the door of their own house, when he knew
them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
to be waited for elsewhere.

232

MANSFIELD PARK.

((

-•I wish you were not so tired,” said he, still
detaining Fanny after all the others were m the

house; “I wish I left you in stronger health Is

there anything I can do for you in town? I have
half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon, i
am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he
still means to impose on me if possible, and get a
cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I de¬
sign for somebody else. I must come to an under¬
standing with him. I must make him know that
I will not be tricked on the south side of Evemng-
ham, any more than on the north, — that I will be
master of my own property. I was not explicit
enough with him before. The mischief such a man
does on an estate, both as to the credit of his em¬
ployer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable.
I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk di¬
rectly, and put everything at once on such a
footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from.
Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to dis¬
place him, — provided he does not try to displace
me; but it would be simple to be duped by a man
who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse
than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted,
griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest
man, to whom I have given half a promise already.
Would not it be worse than simple? Shall I go?

Tin imn QflvlSlP. it?”

know very well what is

you

Do you advise it?

“I advise!
right.”

“ Yes. When you give me your opinion I al¬
ways know what is right. Your judgment is my

rule of right.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

233

“Oh, no! — do not say so. We have all abetter
guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than
any other person can be. Good-by; I wish you a
pleasant journey to-morrow.”

“ Is there nothing I can do for you in town?”

“ ISTothing, I am much obliged to you.”

“ Have you no message for anybody? ”

“My love to your sister, if you please; and
when you see my cousin, — my cousin Edmund,
— I wish you would be so good as to say that —
I suppose I shall soon hear from him.”

“Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I
will write his excuses myself — ”

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no
longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at
her, and was gone. He went to while away the
next three hours as he could, with his other ac¬
quaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn
afforded was ready for their enjoyment; and she
turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different charac¬
ter; and could he have suspected how many jiriva-
tions, besides that of exercise, she endured in her
father’s house, lie would have wondered that her
looks were not much more affected than he found
them. She was so little equal to Rebecca’s pud¬
dings and Rebecca’s hashes, brought to table, as
they all were, with such accompaniments of half-
cleaned plates and not half-cleaned knives and
forks, that she was very often constrained to defer
her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers
in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being
nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day

234

MANSFIELD PARK.

to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sit
Thomas, had he known all, might have thought
his niece in the most promising way of being
starved, both mind and body, into a much juster
value for Mr. Crawford’s good company and good
fortune, he would probably have feared to push his
experiment further, lest she might die under the

cure. , ,

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day.

Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Craw¬
ford again, she could not help being low. It was
parting with somebody of the nature of a friend;
and though, in one light, glad to have him gone,
it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody:
it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield;
and she could not think of his returning to town,
and being frequently with Mary and Edmund,
without feelings so near akin to envy as made her
hate herself for having fhem.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything
passing around her; a friend or two of her father s,
as always happened if he was not with them, spent
the long, long evening there; and from six o’clock
to half-past nine there was little intermission of
noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful
improvement which she still fancied in Mr. Craw¬
ford was the nearest to administering comfort of
anything within the current of her thoughts. Hot
considering in how different a circle she had been
just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to
contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being as¬
tonishingly more gentle and regardful of others
than formerly. And if in little things, must it

MANSFIELD PARK.

235

not be so in great? So anxious for her health and
comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed him¬
self, and really seemed, might not it be fairly sup¬
posed that he would not much longer persevere in
a suit so distressing to her?

CHAPTER XIX.

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travel,
ling hack to London on the morrow, for nothing
more was seen of him at Mr. Price’s; and two days
afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by
the following letter from his sister, opened and
read by her, on another account, with the most
anxious curiosity: —

I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry
has been down to Portsmouth to see you ; that he had a
delightful walk with you to the dock-yard last Saturday,
and one still more to be dwelt on the next day, on the
ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and
your sweet looks and conversation were altogether in the
most delicious harmony, and afforded sensations which
are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect. This, as well as
I understand, is to be the substance of my information.
He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be
communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and
these two said walks, and his introduction to your family,
especially to a fair sister of yours, a fine girl of fifteen,
who Was of the party on the ramparts, taking her first
lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing
much, but it would he out of place if I had, for this is to
be a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose of
conveying necessary information, which could not be de¬
layed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny, if I
had you here, how I would talk to you! — You should
listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till you

MANSFIELD PARK.

237

were still tired more ; but it is impossible to put a hun¬
dredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will abstain
altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have
no news for you. You have politics, of course ; and it
would be too bad to plague you with the names of people
and parties that fill up my time. I ought to have sent
you an account of your cousin’s first party, but I was
lazy, and now it is too long ago ; suffice it that every¬
thing was just as it ought to be, in a style that any of her
connections must have been gratified to witness, and that
her own dress and manners did her the greatest credit.
My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it
would not make vie miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway
after Easter; she seems in high spirits, and very happy.
I fancy Lord S. is very good-humored and pleasant in
his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking
as I did ; at least, one sees many worse. He will not do
bv the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-men¬
tioned hero, what shall I say ? If I avoided his name en¬
tirely, it would look suspicious. I will say, then, that
we have seen him two or three times, and that my friends
here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike ap¬
pearance. Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she
knows but three men in town who have so good a person,
height, and air ; and I must confess, when he dined here
the other day, there were none to compare with him, and
we were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinc¬
tion of dress nowadays to tell tales, but — but — but — -
Yours affectionately.

I had almost forgot (it was Edmund’s fault, he gets
into my head more than does me good) one very material
thing I had to say from Henry and myself, — I mean about
our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear
little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your
pretty looks. Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of
beauty and health. My poor aunt always felt affected

238 MANSFIELD PARK.

if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral of
course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at
your service and Henry’s, at an hour s notice. I should
like the scheme, and we would make a little circuit, and
show you Everingham in our way, and perhaps yon
would not mind passing through London, and seeing the
inside of St. George’s, Hanover Square. Only keep your
cousin Edmund from me at such a time, I should not like
to be tempted. What a long letter ! — one word more.
Henry, I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again
upon some business that you approve, but this cannot
possibly be permitted before the middle of next week,
that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till after the 14th,
for we have a party that evening. The value of a man
like Henry on such an occasion is what you can have no
conception of; so you must take it upon my word to be
inestimable. He will see the Rusliworths, which I own
I am not sorry for, — having a little curiosity — and so I
think has he, though he will not acknowledge it.

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to
be read deliberately, to supply matter for much re¬
flection, and to leave everything in greater sus¬
pense than ever. The only certainty to he drawn
from it was that nothing decisive had yet taken
place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How Miss
Crawford really felt, — how she meant to act or
might act without or against her meaning, —
whether his importance to her were quite what it
had^been before the last separation, — whether if
lessened it were likely to lessen more or to recover
itself, were subjects for endless conjecture, and to
be thought of on that day and many days to come,
without producing any conclusion. The idea that
returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford,

MANSFIELD PARK.

239

after proving herself cooled and staggered by a
return to London habits, would yet prove herself
in the end too much attached to him to give him
up. She would try to be more ambitious than her
heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would
tease, she would condition, she would require a
great deal, hut she would finally accept. This
was Fanny’s most frequent expectation. A house
in town! — that she thought must he impossible.
Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford
might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew
worse and worse. The woman who could speak of
him, and speak only of his appearance! — What
an unworthy attachment! To he deriving sup¬
port from the commendations of Mrs. Fraser! She
who had known him intimately half a year ! Fanny
was ashamed of her. Those parts of the letter
which related only to Mr. Crawford and herself
touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether
Mr. Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the
14th was certainly no concern of hers, though,
everything considered, she thought he would go
without delay. That Miss Crawford should en¬
deavor to secure a meeting between him and Mrs.
Rushworth was all in her worst line of conduct,
and grossly unkind and ill-judged; hut she hoped
he would not be actuated by any such degrading
curiosity. He acknowledged no such inducement,
and his sister ought to have given him credit for
better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter
from town after receiving this than she had been
before; and for a few days was so unsettled by it

240

MANSFIELD PARK.

altogether, by what had come and what might
come, that her usual readings and conversations
with Susan were much suspended. She could not
command her attention as she wished. If Mr.
Crawford remembered her message to her cousin,
she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
would write to her at all events, — it would he most
consistent with his usual kindness; and till she
got rid of this idea, till it gradually wore off, by
no letters appearing in the course of three or four
days more, she was in a most restless, anxious
State.

At length a something like composure succeeded.
Suspense must he submitted to, and must not be
allowed to wear her out and make her useless.
Time did something, her own exertions something
more; and she resumed her attentions to Susan,
and again awakened the same interest in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her;, and though
without any of the early delight in books which
had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to- -sedentary pursuits, or to. in¬
formation for information’s sake, she had so. strong
a desire of not appearing ignorant as, with a good,
clear understanding, made her a, most attentive,
profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle.
Fanny’s explanations and remarks were a most im¬
portant addition to every essay, or every chapter
of history. What Fanny told her of former times
dwelt more on her mind than the pages of Gold¬
smith; and she paid her sister the compliment of
preferring her style to, that of any printed author.
The early habit of reading was wanting.

MANSFIELD PARK.

241

Their conversations, however, were not always
on subjects so high as history or morals. Others
had their hour; and of lesser matters, none re¬
turned so often, or remained so long between them,
as Mansfield Park, a description of the people, the
manners, the amusements, the ways of Mansfield
Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the
genteel and well-appointed, was eager to hear, and
Fanny could not but indulge herself in dwelling
on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not
wrong; though, after a time, Susan’s very great ad¬
miration of everything said or done in her uncle’s
house, and earnest longing to go into Northamp¬
tonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting
feelings which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home
than her elder sister; and as. Fanny grew thor¬
oughly to understand this, she began to feel that
when her own release from Portsmouth came, her
happiness would have a material drawback in
leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of
being made everything good should be left in such
hands distressed her more and more. Were she
likely to have a home to invite her to, what a
blessing it would be! and had it been possible
for her to return Mr. Crawford’s regard, the prob¬
ability of his being very far from objecting to
such a measure would have been the greatest in¬
crease of all her own comforts. She thought he was
really good-tempered, and could fancy his entering
into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.

VOL. II. — 16

CHAPTER XX.

sm weeks of the two months were very nearly
gone, when the one letter, the letter from Edmund
so long expected, was put into Fanny s hands
As she opened and saw its length, she prepared
herself for a minute detail of happiness and a pro¬
fusion of love and praise towards, the fortunate
creature who was now mistress of his fate, ihese
were the contents :

Mansfield Park.

My dear Fanny,— Excuse me that I have not
written before. Crawford told me that you were wish-
ing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to write
from London, and persuaded myself that you woul<
understand my silence. Could I have sent a few happy
lines, they should not have been wanting, but nothing
of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned
to Mansfield in a less assured state than when 1 left it.
My hopes are much weaker. You are probably aware
of this already. So very fond of you as Miss Crawford
is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough of
her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine,
will not be prevented, however, from making my own
communication. Our confidences in you need not clash.
I ask no questions. There is something soothing in the
idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever
unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us,
we are united in our love of you. It will be a comfort
to me to tell you how things now are, and what are my

MANSFIELD PARK.

243

present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have
been returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in
London, and saw her (for London) very often. I had
every attention from the Frasers that could be reasona¬
bly expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carry¬
ing with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of
Mansfield. It was her manner, however, rather than
any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been different
when I did see her, I should have made no complaint,
but from the very first she was altered ; my first recep¬
tion was so unlike what I had hoped that I had almost
resolved on leaving London again directly. 1 need not
particularize. You know the weak side of her character,
and may imagine the sentiments and expressions which
were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and sur¬
rounded by those who were giving all the support of their
own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs.
Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has
married entirely from convenience, and, though evidently
unhappy in her marriage, places her disappointment not
to faults Of judgment or temper, or disproportion of age,
but to her being, after all, less affluent than many of her
acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,
and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary
and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambi¬
tious enough. I look upon her intimacy with those two
sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life and mine.
They have been leading her astray for years. Could she
be detached from them ! — and sometimes I do not despair
of it, for the affection appears to be principally on their
side. They are very fond of her ; but I am sure she
does not love them as she loves you. When I think of
her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of
her judicious, upright conduct as a sister, she appears a
very different creature, capable of everything noble, and I
am ready to blame myself for a too harsh construction of
a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She

244

MANSFIELD PARK.

is the only woman in the world whom I could ever think
of as a wife. If I did not believe that she had some
regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do
believe it I am convinced that she is not without a
decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individ¬
ual. It is the influence of the fashionable world alto-
wether that I am jealous of. It is the habits of weak 1
that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her own
fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our in¬
comes united could authorize. There is comfort, how¬
ever, even here. I could better bear to lose her, because
not rich enough, than because of my profession. I hat
would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices,
which, in fact, I am scarcely justified m asking; and
if I am refused, that, I think, will be the honest motive.
Her prejudices, I trust, are not so strong as they were.
You have my thoughts exactly as they arise, my dear
Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but
it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having
once begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you ail I feel. I
cannot give her up. Connected, as we already are, and,
I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford would be
to wive up the society of some of those most dear to me,
— to banish myself from the very houses and friends
whom, under any other distress, I should turn to for
consolation. The loss of Mary I must consider as com¬
prehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were
it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should
know how to bear it, and how to endeavor to weaken
her hold on my heart; and in the course of a few
yearsv- But I' am writing nonsense. Were I refused,
I must bear it ; and till I am, I can never cease to try
for her. This is the truth. The only question is how ?
What may be the likeliest means? I have sometimes
thought of going to London again after Easter, and
sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to
Mansfield. Even now she speaks with pleasure of being

MANSFIELD PARK. 245

in Mansfield in June; but June is at a great distance,
arid I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly deter¬
mined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early
certainty is a material object. My present slate is mis¬
erably irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter
will be decidedly the best method of explanation. 3 shall
be able to write hutch that I could not say and sliali oe
giving her time for reflection before she resolves on liei
answer, and I am less afraid of the result of reflection
than of ari immediate hasty impulse', I think I am.
My greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs.
Fraser, and I at a distance, unable to help my own
cause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation i
and where the mind is anything short of perfect decision,
an adviser may in an unlucky moment lead it to do
what it iriay afterwards regret. I must think this matter
over a little. This long letter, full of my own concerns
alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of a
Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.
Fraser’s patty. I am more and more satisfied with all
that I sec and hear of him. There is not a shadow of
wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts
up to his resolutions, —an inestimable quality. I could
not see him and my eldest sister in the same room with¬
out recollecting what you once told me, and 1^ acknowl¬
edge that they did not meet as friends. There was
marked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I
saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs.
Rush worth should resent any former supposed slight to
Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion of
Maria's degree Of comfort as a wife. There is no ap¬
pearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty
well together. I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and
mi-dit have been there oftener; but it is mortifying to be
with Ruehworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoy
London exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, -
but have less here. We are not a lively party. You

246

MANSFIELD PARK

are very much, wanted. I miss you more than 1 can
express. My mother desires her best love, and hopes
to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every
hour and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she
is likely to be without you. My father means to fetch
you himself, but it will not be till after Easter, when he
has business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I
hope ; but this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at
home, that I may have your opinion about Thornton
Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvements
till I know that, it will ever have a mistress. I think I
shall certainly write. It is quite settled that the Grants
go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I am
glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be fit for
anybody ; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that
such an article of Mansfield news should fall to my pen
instead of hers.

Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.

“ I never will, — no, I certainly never wall wish
for a letter again,” was Fanny’s secret declaration
as she finished this. “ What do they bring but
disappointment and sorrow ? — Not till after
Easter! How shall I bear it? And my poor aunt
talking of me every hour ! ”

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts
as well as she could; but she was within half a
minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was
quite unkind both to her aunt and to herself. As
fok. the main subject of the letter, — there was
nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was
almost vexed into displeasure and anger against
Edmund. “ There is no good in this delay,” said
she. “ Why is not it settled ? He is blinded,
and nothing will open his eyes, — nothing can,

MANSFIELD PARK.

247

after having had truths before him so long in vain.
He will marry her, and be poor and miserable.
God grant that her influence do not make him
cease to be respectable! ” She looked over the
letter again. “ ‘ So very fond of me!' ’t is non¬
sense all. She loves nobody but herself and her
brother. Her friends leading her astray for years !
She is quite as likely to have led them astray.
They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one an¬
other; but if they are so much fonder of her than
she is of them, she is the less likely to have been
hurt, except by their flattery. ‘ The only woman
in the world whom he could ever think of as a
wife.’ I firmly believe it. It is an attachment to
govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his
heart is wedded to her forever. ‘ Ihe loss of Mary
I must consider as comprehending the loss of
Crawford and Fanny. ’ Edmund, you do not know
me. The families would never be connected if you
did not connect them! Oh, write, write! Finish
it at once; let there be an end of this suspense.
Fix, commit, condemn yourself . ”

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to
resentment to be long guiding Fanny’s soliloquies.
She was soon more softened and sorrowful. His
warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential
treatment touched her strongly. He was. only too
good to everybody. It was a letter, in slioit,
which she would not but have had for the world,
and which could never be valued enough. This
was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing \\ itli-
out having much to say, which will include a laige

248

MANSFIELD PARK.

proportion of the female world at least, must feel,
with Lady Bertram, that she was out of luck in
having such a capital piece of Mansfield news as
the certainty of the Grants going to Bath occur at
a time when she could make no advantage of it,
and will admit that it must have been very morti¬
fying to her to see it fall to the share of her thank¬
less son, and treated as concisely as possible at
the end of a long letter, instead of having it to
spread over the largest part of a page of her own.
Bor though Lady Bertram rather shone in the
epistolary line, having early in her marriage, from
the want of other employment, and the circum¬
stance of Sir Thomas’s being in Parliament, got
into the way of making and keeping correspondents,
and formed for herself a very creditable, common¬
place, amplifying style, so that a very little matter
was enough for her, sue could not do entiiely with¬
out any, she must have something to write about,
even to her niece ; and being so soon to lose all the
benefit of Dr. Grant’s gouty symptoms and Mrs.
Grant’s morning calls, it was very hard upon her
to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she
could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing
for her. Lady Bertram’s hour of good luck came.
Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund s
letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning
thus : —

My dear Fanny, — I take up my pen to communi¬
cate some very alarming intelligence, which I make no
doubt will give you much concern.

MANSFIELD PARK.

249

This was a great deal better than to have to take
up the pen to acquaint her with all the particulars
of the Grants’ intended journey; for the present
intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation
for the pen for many days to come, being no less
than the dangerous illness of her eldest son, of
which they had received notice by express a few
hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of
young men to Newmarket, where a neglected fall
and a good deal of drinking had brought on a
fever; and when the party broke up, being unable
to move, had been left by himself at the house of
one of these young men, to the comforts of sick¬
ness and solitude, and the attendance only of ser¬
vants. Instead of being soon well enough to
follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his dis¬
order increased considerably, and it was not long
before he thought so ill of himself as to be as
ready as his physician to have a letter despatched
to Mansfield.

“ This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,'’
observed her Ladyship, after giving the substance of it,
“ has agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent our¬
selves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive for
the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be
very critical ; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his
brother immediately; but I am happy to add that Sir
Thomas will not leave me on this distressing occasion, as
it would be too trying for me. We shall greatly miss
Edmund in our small circle ; but I trust and hope he will
find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might
he apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to

250

MANSFIELD PARK.

Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be
done, and thinks best on every account, and I flatter my¬
self the poor sufferer will soon be able to bear the re¬
moval without material inconvenience or injury. As 1
have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny,
under these distressing circumstances, I will write again
very soon."

Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were indeed
considerably more warm and genuine than her
aunt’s style of writing. She felt truly for them
all. Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend
him, and the sadly small party remaining at Mans¬
field were cares to shut out every other care, or
almost every other. She could just find selfishness
enough to wonder whether Edmund had written to
Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no
sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely
affectionate and disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt
did not neglect her; she wrote again and again:
they were receiving frequent accounts from Ed¬
mund, and these accounts were as regularly trans¬
mitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style, and the
same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all follow¬
ing and producing each other at hap-hazard. It
was a sort of playing at being frightened. The
sufferings which Lady Bertram did not see had
little power over her fancy; and she wrote very
comfortably about agitation and anxiety and
poor invalids, till Tom was actually conveyed to
Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered
appearance. Then a letter which she had been
previously preparing for Fanny was finished in
a different style, in the language of real feeling

MANSFIELD PARK.

251

and alarm; then she wrote as she might have
spoken : —

“ He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken up¬
stairs; and I am so shocked to see him that I do not
know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill.
Poor Tom ! I am quite grieved for him, and very much
frightened ; and so is Sir Thomas ; and how glad 1 should
be if you were here to comfort me ! But Sir Thomas
hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must
consider his journey.”

The real solicitude now awakened in the mater¬
nal bosom was not soon over. Tom’s extreme
impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and expe¬
rience those comforts of home and family which
had been little thought of in uninterrupted health,
had probably induced his being conveyed thither
too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a
week he was in a more alarming state than ever.
They were all very seriously frightened. Lady
Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who
might now be said to live upon letters, and pass
all her time between suffering from that of to¬
day and looking forward to to-morrow’s. Without
any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her
tenderness of heart made her feel that she could
not spare him; and the purity of her principles
added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered
how little useful, how little self-denying his life
had apparently been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on
this, as on more common occasions. Susan was
always ready to hear and to sympathize. Nobody

252 MANSFIELD PARK.

else could be interested in so remote an evil as ill¬
ness in a family above a hundred miles off, — not
even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,
if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand,
and now and then the quiet observation of, My
poor sister Bertram must he in a great deal of
trouble.”

So long divided and so differently situated, the
ties of blood were little more than nothing. An
attachment originally as tranquil as their tem¬
pers was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price
did quite as much for Lady Bertram as Lady
Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three
or four Prices might have been swept away, any
or all, except Fanny and William, and Lady
Bertram would have thought little about it; or
perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris’s
lips the cant of its being a very happy thing, and
a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to
have them so well provided for.

CHAPTER XXI.

At about the week’s end from his return to Mans¬
field, Tom’s immediate danger was over, and he
was so far pronounced safe as to make his mother
perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of
him in his suffering, helpless state, and hearing
only the best, and never thinking beyond what
she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no
aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest
subject in the world for a little medical imposition.
The fever was subdued; the fever had been his
complaint, of course he would soon be well again:
Lady Bertram could think nothing less, and Fanny
shared her aunt’s security, till she received a few
lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her
a clearer idea of his brother’s situation, and ac¬
quaint her with the apprehensions which he and
his father had imbibed from the physician with
respect to some strong hectic symptoms which
seemed to seize the frame on the departure of the
fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram
should not be harassed by alarms which, it was
to be hoped, would prove unfounded; but there
was no reason why Fanny should not know the
truth. They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund showed her the
patient and the sick-room in a juster and stronger

254

MANSFIELD PARK

light than all Lady Bertram’s sheets of paper
could do. There was hardly any one in the house
who might not have described, from personal ob¬
servation, better than herself, — not one who was
not more useful at times to her son. She could
do nothing but glide in quietly and look at him;
but when able to talk or be talked to or read to,
Edmund was the companion he preferred. His
aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas
knew not how to bring down his conversation or
his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness.
Edmund was all in all. Fanny would certainly
believe him so at least, and must find that her
estimation of him was higher than ever when he
appeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of
a suffering brother. There was not only the de¬
bility of recent illness to assist; there was also,
as she now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits
much depressed, to calm and raise; and her own
imagination added that there must be a mind to
be properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was
more inclined to hope than fear for her cousin, —
except when she thought of Miss Crawford, — but
Miss Crawford gave her the idea of being the child
of good luck, and to her selfishness and vanity it
would be good luck to have Edmund the only son.

Eisgn in the sick-chamber the fortunate Mary was
not forgotten. Edmund’s letter had this postscript;

“On the subject of my last, I had actually begun a
letter when called away by Tom’s illness; but I have
now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of
friends. When Tom is better, I shall go.”

MANSFIELD PARK.

255

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it con¬
tinued, with scarcely any change till Easter. A
line occasionally added by Edmund to his mother’s
letter was enough for Fanny’s information. Tom’s
amendment was alarmingly slow.

Easter came, — particularly late this year, as
Fanny had most sorrowfully considered, on first
learning that she had no chance of leaving Ports-
moutn till after it. It came, and she had yet
heard nothing of her return, — nothing even of the
going to London, which was to precede her return.
Her aunt often expressed a wish for her; hut there
was no notice, no message from the uncle, on whom
all depended. She supposed he could not yet
leave his son; but it was a cruel, a terrible delay
to her. The end of April was coming on: it
would soon be almost three months, instead of two,
that she had been absent from them all, and that
her days 'had been passing in a state of penance,
which she loved them too well to hope they would
thoroughly understand; and who could yet say
when there might be leisure to think of, or fetch
her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longing to
be with them, were such as to bring a line or
two of Cowper’s Tirocinium forever before her.
“ With what intense desire she wants her home,”
was continually on her tongue, as the truest de¬
scription of a yearning which she could not suppose
any school-boy’s bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she
had loved to call it her home, had been fond of
saying that she was going home, — the word had

256

MANSFIELD PARK.

been very dear to her; and so it still was, but it
must be applied to Mansfield. That was now the
home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield
was home. They had been long so arranged in
the indulgence of her secret meditations; and
nothing was more consolatory to her than to find
her aunt using the same language. “I cannot
but say, I much regret your being from home at
this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits.
I trust and hope and sincerely wish you may
never be absent from home so long again,” were
most delightful sentences to her. Still, however,
it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents
made her careful not to betray such a preference
of her uncle’s house: it was always, “ When I go
back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to
Mansfield, I shall do so and so.” For a great
while it was so; but at last the longing grew
stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found her¬
self talking of what she should do when she went
home, before she was aware. She reproached her¬
self, colored, and looked fearfully towards her
father and mother. She need not have been un¬
easy. There was no. sign of displeasure, or even
of hearing her. They were perfectly free from any
jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to
wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of
spring. She had not known before what pleas¬
ures she had to lose in passing March and April
in a town. She had not known before, how much
the beginnings and progress of vegetation had
delighted her. What animation both of body

MANSFIELD PARK.

257

and mind she had derived from watching the ad¬
vance of that season which cannot, in spite of its
capriciousness, he unlovely, and seeing its increas¬
ing beauties from the earliest flowers, in the
warmest divisions of her aunt's garden, to the
opening of leaves of her uncle’s plantations, and
the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleas¬
ures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she
was in the midst of closeness and noise; to have
confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for
liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was
infinitely worse : but even these incitements to re¬
gret were feeble, compared with what arose from
the conviction of being missed by her best friends,
and the longing to be useful to those who were
wanting her!

Could she have been at home, she might have
been of service to every creature in the house.
She felt that she must have been of use to all. To
all she must have saved some trouble of head or
hand; and were it only in supporting the spirits
of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the evil of
solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,
officious companion, too apt to be heightening
danger in order to enhance her own importance,
her being there would have been a general good.
She loved to fancy how she could have read to her
aunt, how she could have talked to her, and tried
at once to make her feel the blessing of what was,
and prepare her mind for what might be ; and how
many walks up and down stairs she might have
saved her, and how many messages she might have
carried. _

von. n. — 17

258

MANSFIELD PARK.

It astonished her that Tom’s sisters could be
satisfied with remaining in London at such a time,
— through an illness which had now, under dif¬
ferent degrees of danger, lasted several weeks.
They might return to Mansfield when they chose;
travelling could be no difficulty to them, and she
could not comprehend how both could still keep
away. If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any in¬
terfering obligations, Julia was certainly able to
quit London whenever she chose. It appeared
from one of her aunt’s letters, that Julia had
offered to return if wanted, — but this was all. It
was evident that she would rather remain where
she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of
London very much at war with all respectable
attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss
Crawford as well as in her cousins: her attach¬
ment to Edmund had been respectable, the most
respectable part of her character; her friendship
for herself had at least been blameless. Where
was either sentiment now? It was so long since
Fanny had had any letter from her that she had
some reason to think lightly of the friendship
which had been so dwelt on. It was weeks since
she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of
her other connections in town, except through
Mansfield, and she was beginning to suppose that
she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had
gone into Norfolk again or not, till they met,
and might never hear from his sister any more
this spring, when the following letter was received
Co revive old, and create some new sensations : —

MANSFIELD PARK.

Otr,'*

4D\)

Forgive rne, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for
my long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me
directly. This is my modest request and expectation, for
you are so good that I depend upon being treated better
than I deserve, — and I write now to beg an immediate
answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield
Park, and you, no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One
should be a brute not to feel for the distress they are in,
— and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad
chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his ill¬
ness at first. I looked upon him as a sort of person to
be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any
trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who
had to nurse him ; but now it is confidently asserted that
he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most
alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware
of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that
part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to
let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I
need not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has
been any mistake ; but the report is so prevalent that I
confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine
young man cut off in the flower of his days is most mel¬
ancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. 1
really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny,
1 see you smile, and look cunning ; but upon my honor,
I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young
man ! If he is to die, there will be two poor young men
less in the world ; and with a fearless face and bold
voice would I say to any one that wealth and conse¬
quence could fall into no hands more deserving of them.
It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil
of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and
gilding hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the
Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like
mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by
return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle

260

MANSFIELD PARK.

with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the
fountain head. And now, do not trouble yourself to be
ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me,
they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and
virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether “Sir
Edmund ” would not do more good with all the Bertram
property than any other possible “ Sir.” Had the Grants
been at home, I would not have troubled you ; but you are
now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters
not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spend¬
ing the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as,
to°be sure, you know), and is not yet returned; and
Julia is with the cousins, who live near Bedford Square ;
but I forgot their name and street. Could I immediately
apply to either, however, I should still prefer you, be¬
cause it strikes me that they have all along been so
unwilling to have their own amusements cut up as to
shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.’s
Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they
are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant
people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but
enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going
dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother ; but how
will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is
not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not
you think Edmund would have been in town again long
ago, but for this illness ?

Yours ever, Mary.

I-Vhad actually begun folding my letter, when Henry
walked in ; but he brings no intelligence to prevent my
sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended ; he
saw her this morning : she returns to Wimpole Street to¬
day ; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself
uneasy with any queer fancies, because he has been
spending a few days at Richmond. He does it every
spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At

MANSFIELD PAKK.

261

this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only
m contriving the means for doing so, and for makino- his
pleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, ° and
more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about our con¬
veying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul.
Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It
will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage,
you know, and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield
Park. It would really be gratifying to see them all
again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite
use to them ; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to
be so wanted there that you cannot in conscience (con¬
scientious as you are) keep away, when you have the
means of returning. I have not time or patience to give
half Henry’s messages ; be satisfied that the spirit of
each and every one is unalterable affection.”

Fanny’s disgust at the greater part of this
letter, with her extreme reluctance to bring the
writer oi it and her cousin Edmund together,
would have made her (as she felt) incapable of
judging impartially whether the concluding offer
might be accepted or not. To herself, individually,
it was most tempting. To be finding herself,
perhaps within three days, transported to Mans¬
field, was an image of the greatest felicity; hut it
would have been a material drawback to be owing
such felicity to persons in whose feelings and con¬
duct at the present moment she saw so much to
condemn, — the sister’s feelings, the brother’s con¬
duct; her cold-hearted ambition, his thought-
less vanity. To have him still the acquaintance,
the dirt, perhaps, of Mrs. Rush worth! She was
mortified. She had thought better of him.
Happily, however, she was not left to weigh and

262 MANSFIELD PARK.

decide between opposite inclinations and doubtful
notions of right; there was no occasion to deter¬
mine whether she ought to keep Edmund and
Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to,
which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle
and her dread of taking a liberty with him made
it instantly plain to her what she had to do. She
must absolutely decline the proposal. If he wanted,
he would send for her; and even to offer an early
return was a presumption which hardly anything
would have seemed to justify. She thanked Miss
Crawford, but gave a decided negative. “ Her un¬
cle, she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her
cousin’s illness had continued so many weeks with¬
out her being thought at all necessary, she must sup¬
pose her return would be unwelcome at present,
and that she should be felt an incumbrance.

Her representation of her cousin’s state at this
time was exactly according to her own belief of it,
and such as she supposed would convey to the
sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of
everything she was wishing for. Edmund would
be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,
under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she
suspected, was all the conquest of prejudice, which
he was so ready to congratulate himself upon.
She v had only learnt to think nothing of conse¬
quence but money.

CHAPTER XXII.

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was
conveying a real disappointment, she was rather in
expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Craw¬
ford’s temper, of being urged again; and though no
second letter arrived for the space of a week, she
had still the same feeling when it did come.

On receiving it she could instantly decide on its
containing little writing, and was persuaded of its
having the air of a letter of haste and business.
Its object was unquestionable; and two moments
were enough to start the probability of its being
merely to give her notice that they should be in
Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all
the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in
such a case. If two moments, however, can sur¬
round with difficulties, a third can disperse them;
and before she had opened the possibility of Mr.
and Miss Crawford’s having applied to her uncle
and obtained his permission, was giving her ease.
This was the letter.

A most scandalous, ill-natured rumor has just reached
me; and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving
the least credit to it, should it spread into the country.
Depend upon it there is some mistake, and that a day or
two will clear it up, — at any rate, that Henry is blame¬
less, and in spite of a moment’s etourderie thinks of

264

MANSFIELD PARK.

nobody but you. Say not a word of it, — hear nothing,
surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I am
sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but
Rushworth’s folly. If they are gone, I would lay my
life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with
them. But why would not you let us come for you ? I
wish you may not repent it.

Yours, etc.

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-
natured rumor liad reached her, it was impossible
for her to understand much of this strange letter.
She could only perceive that it must relate to
Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only con¬
jecture that something very imprudent had just
occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the
world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Craw=-
ford’s apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Craw¬
ford need not be alarmed for her. She was only
sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield,
if the report should spread so far; hut she hoped
it might not. If the Bushworths were gone them¬
selves to Mansfield, as was to he inferred from
what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that
anything unpleasant should have preceded them,
or at least should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him
a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him
that he was not capable of being steadily attached
to any one woman in the world, and shame him
from persisting any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think
he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for
her something more than common; and his sis*

MANSFIELD PARK.

265

ter still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet
there must have been some marked display of ah
tentions to her cousin, there must have been some
strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was
not of a sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was and must continue
till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was
impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts,
and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it
to any human being. Miss Crawford need not
have urged secrecy with so much warmth) she
might have trusted to her sense of what was due
to her cousin.

The next day came, and brought no second
letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still
think of little else all the morning; but when her
father came back in the afternoon, with the daily
newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting
any elucidation through such a channel that the
subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remem¬
brance of her first evening in that room, of her
father and his newspaper, came across her. No
candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an
hour and a half above the horizon. She felt that
she had, indeed, been three months there; and
the sun’s rays falling strongly into the parlor,
instead of cheering, made her still more melan¬
choly; for sunshine appeared to her a totally dif¬
ferent thing in a town and in the country. Here
its power was only a glare, — a stifling, sickly glare,
serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that
might otherwise have slept. There was neither

266

MANSFIELD PARK.

health nor gayety in sunshine in a town. She sat
in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving
dust; and her eyes could only wander from the
walls marked by her father’s head, to the table,
cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the
tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and
saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of
motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and
butter growing every minute more greasy than
even Rebecca’s hands had first produced it. Her
father read his newspaper, and her mother la¬
mented over the ragged carpet as usual, while
the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca
would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his
calling out to her, after humpliingand considering
over a particular paragraph, “What ’s the name of
your great cousins in town, Fan? ”

A moment’s recollection enabled her to say,
“ Rushworth, sir.”

“ And don’t they live in Wimpole Street?”

“ Yes, sir.”

“Then there’s the devil to pay among them,
that’s all. There,” holding out the paper to her,
“much good may such fine relations do you! I
don’t know what Sir Thomas may think of such
matters; he maybe too much of the courtier and
fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But
by G— , if she belonged to me, I ’d give her the
rope’s end as long as I could stand over her. A
little flogging for man and woman, too, would be
the best way of preventing such things.”

Fanny read to herself that “it was with infi¬
nite concern the newspaper had to announce to

MANSFIELD PARK.

267

the world a matrimonial fracas in the family of
Mr. II., of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R.,
whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists
of Hymen, and who had promised to become so
brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having
quitted her husband’s roof in company with the
well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate
friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not
known, even to the editor of the newspaper, whither
they were gone.”

“It is a mistake, sir,” said Fanny, instantly;
“it must be a mistake, — it cannot he true, — ’it
must mean some other people.”

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying
shame, she spoke with a resolution which sprung
from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could
not believe herself. It had been the shock of
conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her;
and how she could have spoken at all, how she
could even have breathed, was afterwards matter
of wonder to herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to
make her much answer. “It might be all a lie,”
he acknowledged; “hut so many fine ladies were
going to the devil nowadays that way, that there
was no answering for anybody.”

“Indeed, I hope it is not true,” said Mrs. Price,
plaintively; “it would be so very shocking! — If
I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I
am sure I have spoken at least a dozen times ; have
not I, Betsey? And it would not he ten minutes’
work.”

The horror of a mind like Fanny’s, as it received

268 MANSFIELD PARK.

the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in
some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly
be described. At first it was a sort of stupefac¬
tion; but every moment was quickening her percep¬
tion of the horrible evil. She could not doubt; she
dared not indulge a hope of the paragraph being
false. Miss Crawford’s letter, which she had read
so. often as to make every line her own, was in
frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of
her brother, her hope of its being hushed up, her
evident agitation, were all of a piece with some¬
thing very bad; and if there was a woman of char¬
acter in existence, who could treat as a trifle this
sin of the first magnitude, who could try to gloss it
over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could
believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! How she
could see her own mistake as to who were gone —
or said to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rush-
worth ; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been
shocked before. There was no. possibility of rest.
The evening passed without a pause of misery, the
night was totally sleepless. She passed only from
feelings \>f sickness to shudderings of horror, and
from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so
shocking that there were moments when her heart
revolted from it as impossible, — when she thought
it could not be. A woman married only six
months ago; a man professing himself devoted,
even engaged, to another, — that other her near re¬
lation; the whole family, both families connected
as they were by tie upon tie, all friends, all inti¬
mate together, — it was too horrible a confusion of

MANSFIELD PAEK. 269

guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human
nature, not m a state of utter barbarism, to be ca¬
pable of! Yet her judgment told her it was so,
ffis unsettled affections, wavering with his van¬
ity, Maria’s decided attachment, and no sufficient
principle on either side gave it possibility; Miss
Crawford’s letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would
it not injure? Whose views might it not affect?
Whose peace would it not cut up forever? Miss
Crawford herself — Edmund; but it was danger¬
ous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confined
herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple,
indubitable family misery which must envelope
all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and
public exposure. The mother’s sufferings, the
father’s — there she paused. Julia’s, Tom’s, Ed¬
mund’s — there a yet longer pause. They were
the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir
Thomas ’’s parental solicitude and high sense of
honor and decorum; Edmund’s upright principles,
unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of' feel¬
ing, — made her think it scarcely possible for them
to support life and reason under such disgrace;
and it appeared to her that as far as this world
alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to
every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would
be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day or the next,
to weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and
brought no refutation, public or private. There
Was no second letter to explain away the first,
from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligence

270

MANSFIELD PARK.

from Mansfield, though it was now full time for
her to hear again from her aunt. This was an
evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow
of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to
so low and wan and trembling a condition as no
mother not unkind, except Mrs. Price could have
overlooked, when the third day did bring the sick¬
ening knock, and a letter was again put into her
hands. It bore the London postmark, and came
from Edmund.

Dear Fanny, — You know our present wretchedness.
May God support you under your share ! W e have been
here two days, but there is nothing to be done. They
cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last
blow, — Julia’s elopement; she is gone to Scotland with
A ates. She left London a few hours before we entered
it. At any other time this would have been felt dread¬
fully. Now it seems nothing, yet it is a heavy aggrava¬
tion. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be
hoped. He is still able to think and act ; and I write,
by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is
anxious to get you there for my mother’s sake. I shall
be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and
hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My
father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you, for a
fev^ months. Settle it as you like ; say what is proper ;
I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness
at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however

may confuse it. You may imagine something of mv
present state. There is no end of the evil let loose upon
us. You will see me early, by the mail.

Yours, etc.

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never
had she felt such a one as this letter contained.

MANSFIELD PARK.

271

To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She
was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of
being exquisitely happy, while so many were mis¬
erable. The evil which brought such good to her!
She dreaded lest she should learn to be insen¬
sible of it. To be going so soon, sent for so
kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave to
take Susan was altogether such a combination of
blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time
seemed to distance every pain, and make her in¬
capable of suitably sharing the distress even of
those whose distress she thought of most. Julia’s
elopement could affect her comparatively but little;
she was amazed and shocked; but it could not
occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She
was obliged to call herself to think of it, and
acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it
was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating,
pressing, joyful cares attending this summons to
herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indis¬
pensable employment, for relieving sorrow. Em¬
ployment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy;
and her occupations were hopeful. She had so
much to do that not even the horrible story of
Mrs. Rush worth (now fixed to the last point of
certainty) could affect her as it had done before.
She had not time to be miserable. Within
twenty-four hours she was hoping to he gone;
her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan
prepared, everything got ready. Business fol¬
lowed business; the day was hardly long enough.
The happiness she was imparting, too, — happi

272

MANSFIELD PARK.

ness very little alloyed by the black communica¬
tion which must briefly precede it, — the joyful
consent of her father and mother to Susan’s going
with her, the general satisfaction with which the
going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy
of Susan herself were all serving to support her
spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in
the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister
for a few minutes, but how to find anything to
hold Susan’s clothes, because Rebecca took away
all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more in
her thoughts ; and as for Susan, now unexpectedly
gratified in the first wish of her heart, and know¬
ing nothing personally of those who had sinned
or of those who were sorrowing, — if she could help
rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much
as ought to be expected from human virtue at
fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of
Mrs. Price or the good offices of Rebecca, every¬
thing was rationally and duly accomplished, and
the girls were ready for the morrow. The ad¬
vantage of much sleep to prepare them for their
journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less
than visited their agitated spirits, — one all hap¬
piness, the other all varying and indescribable
perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the
house. The girls heard his entrance from above,
and Panny went down. The idea of immediately
seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must

MANSFIELD PARK.

273

be suffering, brought back all her own first feel¬
ings. He so near her, and in misery, — she was
ready to sink as she entered the parlor. He was
alone, and met her instantly; and she found her¬
self pressed to his heart with only these words,
just articulate, “My Fanny, — my only sister, —
my only comfort now.” She could say nothing;
nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself; and when
he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his
manner showed the wish of self-command, and
the resolution of avoiding any further allusion.
“Have you breakfasted? When shall you he
ready? Hoes Susan go?” — were questions fol¬
lowing each other rapidly. His great object was
to be off as soon as possible. When Mansfield
was considered, time was precious; and the state
of his own mind made him hnd relief only in
motion. It was settled that he should order the
carriage to the door in half an hour; Fanny
answered for their having breakfasted, and be¬
ing quite ready in half an hour. He had already
ate, and declined staying for their meal. He
would walk round the ramparts, and join then?
with the carriage. He was gone again, glad to
get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under
violent emotions, which he was determined to
suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was

terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house
again at the same moment, just in time to spend
a few minutes with the family, and be a witness^
VOL. II. — 18..

274

MANSFIELD PARK.

but that he saw nothing — of the tranquil manner
in which the daughters were parted with, and just
in time to prevent their sitting down to the break¬
fast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage
drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in her
father’s house was in character with her first; she
was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had
been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude
as she passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and
how Susan’s face wore its broadest smiles, may be
easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and
screened by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Ed¬
mund’s deep sighs often reached Fanny. Had he
been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan’s presence
drove him quite into himself, and his attempts to
talk on indifferent subjects could never be long
supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solici¬
tude, and sometimes catching his eye, revived an
affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
first day’s journey passed without her hearing a
word from him on the subjects that were weighing
him down. The next morning produced a little
more. Just before their setting out from Oxford,
while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager-
observation of the departure of a large family from
the inn, the other two were standing by the fire;
and Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration
in Fanny s looks, and from his ignorance of the

MANSFIELD PARK.

275

daily evils of her father’s house, attributing an
undue share of the change, attributing all to the
recent event, took her hand, and said in a low hut
very expressive tone: “No wonder, — you must
feel it, — you must suffer. How a man who had
once loved could desert you ! But yours — your
regard was new compared with — Fanny, think
of me ! ”

The first division of their journey occupied a
long day, and brought them, almost knocked up,
to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mans¬
field long before the usual dinner-time; and as they
approached the beloved place, the hearts of both
sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the
meeting with her aunts and Tom, under so dread¬
ful a humiliation; and Susan to feel with some
anxiety that all her best manners, all her lately
acquired knowledge of what was practised here,
was on the point of being called into action.
Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms
and new gentilities were before her; and she was
meditating much upon silver forks, napkins, and
finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake
to the difference of the country since February;
but when they entered the Park, her perceptions
and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was
three months, full three months, since her quitting
it; and the change was from winter to summer.
Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations
of the freshest green; and the trees, though not
fully clothed, were in that delightful state when
further beauty is known to be at hand, and when,

276

MANSFIELD PARK.

while much is actually given to the sight, more
yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment,
however, was for herself alone. Edmund could
not share it. She looked at him, hut he was lean¬
ing back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and
with eyes closed as if the view of cheerfulness op¬
pressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must
be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowl¬
edge of what must be enduring there, invested even
the house, modern and airy, and well situated as
it was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within, they were
expected with such impatience as she had never
known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the
solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram ,ame
Irom the drawing-room to meet her, - came with
yo indolent step, and falling on her neck, said,

Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

Ix had been a miserable party, each of the three
believing themselves most miserable. Mrs. Nor-
ris, however, as moot attached to Maria, was really
the greatest sufferer. Maria was her hrst favorite,
the dearest of all: the match had been her own
contriving, as she had been wont with such pr.de
of heart to feel and say; and th.s conclusion of it
almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied,
indifferent to everything that passed. The being
left with her sister and nephew, and all the house
under her care, had been an advantage entirely
thrown away, she had been unable to direct or dn>
tate or even fancy herself useful. Mhen really
touched by affliction, her active powers had been a
benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor lom h
received from her the smallest support or attempt
at support. She had done no more for them than
they had done for each other. They had been all
Solitary helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the
arrival^ of the others only established her superi¬
ority in wretchedness. Her companions were re¬
lieved but there was no good for hei. 11UU'
was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny to
Per aiint but Mrs. Norris, instead of having com-
tf from either, was but the more irritated by the

278

MANSFIELD PARK.

sight of the person whom, in the blindness of her
anger, she could have charged as the demon of the
piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford, this
could not have happened.

Susan, too, was a grievance. She had not
spirits to notice her in more than a few repulsive
looks; but she felt her as a spy and an intruder
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious.
By her other aunt Susan was received with quiet
kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much
time or many words, hut she felt her, as Fanny’s
sister, to have a claim at Mansfield, and was ready
to kiss and like her; and Susan was more than
satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing
but ill-humor was to he expected from Aunt Norris ;
and was so provided with happiness, so strong in
that best of blessings, an escape from many certain
evils, that she could have stood against a great
deal more indifference than she met with from
the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get
acquainted with the house and grounds as she
could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have at¬
tended to her were shut up, or wholly occupied
each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund
trying to bury his own feelings in exertions for
the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny devoted
to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former
office with more than former zeal, and thinking
she could never do enough for one who seemed
so much to want her.

MANSFIELD PARK.

279

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny,
talk and lament, was all Lady Bertram’s consola¬
tion. To he listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was
everything that could be done for her. To he
otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not
think deeply, hut, guided hy Sir Thomas, she
thought justly on all important points; and she
saw therefore, in all its enormity, what had hap¬
pened, and neither endeavored herself, nor re¬
quired Fanny to advise her, to think little of
guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind
tenacious. After a time Fanny found it not im¬
possible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,
and revive some interest in the usual occupation ;
but whenever Lady Bertram was fixed on the
event, she could see it only in one light, as com¬
prehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which
had yet transpired. Her aunt was no very me¬
thodical narrator; but with the help of some let¬
ters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already
knew herself, and could reasonably combine, she
was soon able to understand quite as much as she
wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rush worth had gone, for the Easter holi¬
days, to Twickenham, with a family whom she had
just grown intimate with, — afamilyof lively, agiee-
able manners, and probably of morals and discre¬
tion to suit, for to their house Mr. Crawford had

280

MANSFIELD PARK.

constant access at all times. His having been in
the same neighborhood, Fanny already knew. Mr.
Eushworth had been gone at this time to Bath,
to pass a few days with his mother, and bring her
back to town, and Maria was with these friends
without any restraint, without even Julia; for
Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two or
three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of
Sir Thomas, — a removal which her father and
mother were now disposed to attribute to some view
of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon
after the Eushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir
Thomas had received a letter from an old and most
particular friend in London, who, hearing and w it-
nessing a good deal to alarm him in that quaiter,
wrote to recommend Sir Thomas’s coming to Lon¬
don himself, and using his influence with his
daughter to put an end to an intimacy which was
already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and
evidently making Mr. Eushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this let¬
ter, without communicating its contents to any
creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by an¬
other, sent express from the same friend, to break
to him the almost desperate situation in which
aff&irs then stood with the young people. Mrs.
Eushworth had left her husband’s house; Mr.
Eushworth had been in great anger and distress
to him (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr. Harding
feared there had been at least very flagrant indis¬
cretion. The maidservant of Mrs. Eushworth,
senior, threatened alarmingly. He was doing all
in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of

MANSFIELD PARK.

281

Mrs. Rushworth’s return, but was so much coun¬
teracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr.
Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept
from the rest of the family. Sir Thomas set off;
Edmund would go with him; and the others had
been left in a state of wretchedness inferior only to
what followed the receipt of the next letters from
London. Everything was by that time public be¬
yond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the
mother, had exposure in her power, and, supported
by her mistress, was not to be silenced. The two
ladies, even in the short time they had been to¬
gether, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the
elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps
arise almost as much from the personal disrespect
with which she, had herself been treated, as from
sensibility for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable.
But had she been less obstinate, or of less weight
with her son who was always guided by the last
speaker, by the person who could get hold of and
shut him up, the case would still have been hope¬
less; for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear again, and
there was every reason to conclude her to be con¬
cealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had
quitted his uncle’s house, as for a journey, on the
very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little lon¬
ger in town, in the hope of discovering and snatch-
big her from further vice, though all was lost on
the side of character.

282

MANSFIELD PARK.

His present state Fanny could hardly bear to
think of. There was hut one of his children who
was not at this time a source of misery to him.
Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by
the shock of his sister’s conduct, and his recovery
so much thrown back by it that even Lady Ber¬
tram had been struck by the difference, and all her
alarms were regularly sent off to her husband; and
Julia’s elopement, the additional blow which had
met him on his arrival in London, though its force
had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew,
be sorely felt. She saw that it was. His letters
expressed how much he deplored it. Under any
circumstances it would have been an unwelcome
alliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed,
and such a period chosen for its completion, placed
Julia’s feelings in a most unfavorable light, and
severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He
called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner
and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as
more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he
could not but regard the step she had taken as
opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion
hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion
of the set into which she had thrown herself.
v Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could
have no comfort but in Edmund. Every other
child must he racking his heart. His displeasure
against herself she trusted, reasoning differently
from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away. She
should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have
fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but
this, though most material to herself, would be

MANSFIELD PARK.

283

poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle’s dis¬
pleasure was terrible to her; but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do
for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that
Edmund gave his father no present pain. It was
of a much less poignant nature than what the
others excited; hut Sir Thomas was considering his
happiness as very deeply involved in the offence of
his sister and friend, cut off by it as he must be
from the woman whom he had been pursuing wit 1
undoubted attachment and strong probability of
success, and who in everything but this despicable
brother would have been so eligible a connection.
He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering
on his own behalf in addition to all the rest, when
they were in town; lie had seen or conjectured Ins
feelings, and having reason to think that one inter¬
view with Miss Crawford had taken place, from
which Edmund derived only increased distress,
had been as anxious on that account as on others to
get him out of town, and had engaged him m
taking Fanny home to her aunt, with a view to his
relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was
not in the secret of her uncle’s feelings, bir
Thomas not in the secret of Miss Crawford s char¬
acter. Had he been privy to her conversation
with his son, he would not have wished her to be¬
long to him, though her twenty thousand pounds

That Edmund must be forever divided from Miss
Crawford did not admit of a doubt with Fanny;
and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her

284

MANSFIELD PARK.

own conviction was insufficient. She thought he
did, but she wanted to be assured of it. If he
would now speak to her with the unreserve which
had sometimes been too much for her before, it
would be most consoling; but that she found was
not to be. She seldom saw him, — never alone i
he probably avoided being alone with her. What
was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted
to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this
family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to
be a subject of the slightest communication. This
must be his state. He yielded, but it was with
agonies which did not admit of speech. Long,
long would it be ere Miss Crawford’s name passed
ns lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of
such confidential intercourse as had been.

It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thurs¬
day, and it was not till Sunday evening that Ed¬
mund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening, _ a wet Sunday even¬
ing, — the very time of all others when if a friend
is at hand the heart must be opened, and every-

Tif ° i n° °ne e^Se roonb except his

mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon

had cried herself to sleep, - it was impossible not

to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly

it r\rtv,hat oame flrst’ tii

declaration that if she would listen to him for a

neT ™a“‘S ,e-s!rld be Vel7 brief> “d certainly
evei tax her kindness m the same way again —

it a re^tition’ - * -uTd bseiib-

luxury of relat' eiltn'eI>7’ ~he entered upon the
.7 relating circumstances, and sensations of

MANSFIELD PARK.

285

the first interest to himself, to one of whose affec¬
tionate sympathy he was quite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and
concern, what pain and what delight, how the agi¬
tation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself,
may be imagined. The opening was alarming. lie
had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
see her. He had received a note from Lady Storn¬
away to beg him to call; and regarding it as what
was meant to be the last, last interview of friend¬
ship, and investing her with all the feelings of
shame and wretchedness which Crawford’s sister
ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a
state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it
for a few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that
it should be the last. But as he proceeded in his
story, these fears were over. She had met him, he
said, with a serious, — certainly a serious, — even an
agitated air; but before lie had been able to speak
one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the
subject in a manner which he owned had shocked
him. “ ‘I heard you were in town,’ said she, —

< I wanted to see you. Let us talk over this sad
business. What can equal the folly of our two re¬
lations?’ I could not answer, but I believe my
looks spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how
quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she
then added, ‘ I do not mean to defend Henry at
your sister’s expense.’ So she began; but how
she went on, Fanny, is not St — is hardly St to be
repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words,
would not dwell upon them if I could. Their sub-

286

MANSFIELD PARK.

stance was great anger at the folly of each. She
reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on
by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do
what must lose him the woman he adored; but still
more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a
situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the
idea of being really loved by a man who had long
ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I
must have felt. To hear the woman whom — No
harsher name than folly given! So voluntarily,
so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance,
no horror, no feminine — shall I say? no modest
loathings! This is what the world does. For
where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature
had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!”

After a little reflection he -went on with a sort
of desperate calmness: “I will tell you every¬
thing, and then have done forever. She saw it
only as folly, and that folly stamped only by ex¬
posure. The want of common discretion, of caution,
— his going down to Richmond for the whole time
of her being at Twickenham, - — her putting herself
in the power of a servant; it was the detection,
in short, — oh, Fanny, it was the detection, not
the offence, which she reprobated. It was the im¬
prudence which had brought things to extremity,
and obliged her brother to give up every dearer
plan in order to fly with her.”

He stopped. “And what,” said Fanny, be¬
lieving herself required to speak, — “what could
you say ? ”

“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was
like a man stunned. She went on, began to talk

MANSFIELD PARK.

287

0f y0U) — yes, then she began to talk of you, re¬
gretting, as well she might, the loss of such a
There she spoke very rationally. But she has al¬
ways done justice to you. ‘ He has thrown away,
said she, ‘ such a woman as he will never see
again. She would have fixed him, she would have
made him happy forever.’ My dearest Fanny, I
am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain
by this retrospect of what might have been, but
what never can be now. You do not wish me to
he silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word,

and I have done.”

No look or word was given.

“Thank God!” said he. “We were all dis¬
posed to wonder, - but it seems to have been the
merciful appointment of Providence that the heart
which know no guile should not suffer. She spoke
of you with high praise and warm affection; yet
even here there was alloy, a dash of evil, for m
the midst of it she could exclaim: ‘ Why would
not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple
o-irp I shall never forgive her. Had she ac¬
cepted him as she ought, they might now have
been on the point of marriage, and Henry would
have been too happy and too busy to want any other
object. He would have taken no pains to be on
terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have
all ended in a regular standing flirtation, m year y
meetings at Sotherton and Evenngham. Could
you have believed it possible?^ But the charm is
broken. My eyes are opened.”

“Cruel!” said Fanny, — “ quite cruel! At
such a moment to give way to gayety, and to speak
with lightness, and to you ! Absolute cruelty !

288

MANSFIELD PARK.

“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there.
No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider
her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil
lies yet deeper, — in her total ignorance, unsuspi¬
ciousness of there being such feelings, in a perver¬
sion of mind which made it natural to her to treat
the subject as she did. She was speaking only as
she had been used to hear others speak, as she
imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are
not faults of temper. She would not volunta¬
rily give unnecessary pain to any one; and
though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think
that for me, for my feelings, she would — Hers
are faults of principle, Fanny, of blunted delicacy
and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is
best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret.
Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to
all the increased pain of losing her, rather than
have to think of her as I do. I told her
so.”

“Did you?”

“Wes, when I left her I told her so.”

“ How long were you together? ”

“ Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on
to say that what remained now to be done was to
bring about a marriage between them. She spoke
of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.”
He was obliged to pause more than once as he con¬
tinued: “‘We must persuade Henry to marry
her,’ said she; ‘and what with honor, and the cer¬
tainty of having shut himself out forever from
Fanny, I do not despair of it. _ Fanny he .must
give up. I do not think that even he could now

MANSFIELD PARK.

289

hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and there¬
fore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty.
My influence, which is not small, shall all go that
way; and when once married, and properly sup¬
ported by her own family, people of respectability
as they are, she may recover her footing in society
to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she
would never be admitted; but with good dinners
and large parties there will always be those who
will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, un¬
doubtedly, more liberality and candor on those
points than formerly. What I advise is that your
father lie quiet. Do not let him injure his own
cause by interference. Persuade him to let things
take their course. If by any officious exertions of
his she is induced to leave Henry’s protection,
there will be much less chance of his marrying
her than if she remain with him. I know how he
is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust
to his honor and compassion, and it may all end
well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be

destroying the chief hold.’ ”

After repeating this, Edmund was so much af¬
fected that Fanny, watching him with silent but
most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all. It was long
before he could speak again. At last, “ Now,
Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. 1
have told you the substance of all that she said.
As soon as I could speak, I replied that I had no
supposed it possible, coming m such a state, of
mind into that house as I had done, that anything
could occur to make me suffer more, but that she

VOL. II. — 19

290

MANSFIELD PARK.

had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every
sentence; that, though I had, m the course o
our acquaintance, been often sensible of some dif¬
ference in our opinions, on points too of some
moment, it bad not entered my imagination to
conceive the difference could be such as she had
now proved it; that the manner in which she
treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother
and my sister — with whom lay the greater seduc¬
tion I pretended not to say— but the manner in
which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every
reproach but the right, considering its ill conse¬
quences only as they were to be braved or over¬
borne by a defiance of decency and impudence
in wrong, and, last of all, and above all, recom¬
mending to us a compliance, a compromise, an ac¬
quiescence, in the continuance of the sin, on the
chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now
thought of her brother, should rather be prevented
than sought, — all this together most grievously
convinced me that I had never understood her be¬
fore, and that, as far as related to mind, it had
been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss
Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for
many months past; that, perhaps, it was best for¬
me, — I had less to regret in sacrificing a friend¬
ship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have
been torn from me now; and yet, that I must
and would confess that could I have restored her
to what she had appeared to me before, I would in¬
finitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting,
for the sake of carrying with me the right of ten¬
derness and esteem. This is what I said, — the

MANSFIELD TARK.

291

purport of it, —but, as you may imagine, not
spoken so collectedly or methodically as X have le-
peated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly
astonished, more than astonished. I saw her
change countenance. She turned extremely red.
I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings, a
great, though short struggle, — half a wish of
yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, — but

habit, habit carried it.

She would have laughed
if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she an¬
swered: ‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word!
Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate
you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and
Thornton Ijacey; and when I hear of you next, it
may be as a celebrated preacher in some great so¬
ciety of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign
parts ’ She tried to speak carelessly ; but she was
not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only
said, in reply, that from my heart I wished her
well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon
learn to think more justly, and not owe the most
valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire
the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty o
the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the
room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny when I
heard the door open behind me. ‘Mr. Bertram
said she. I looked back. ‘Mr. Bertram, said
Bhe with a smile; but it was a smile ill-sui ed to
the conversation that had passed, — a saucy, play u
ZZ seeming to invite in order to subdue «,
at least it appeared so to me. 1 res.sted, - t
the impulse of the moment to res.st.--and st.il
walked on. I have since - sometimes -

292

MANSFIELD PARK.

moment -regretted that I did not go hack; but 1
know I was right; and such has been the end o
our acquaintance ! And what an acquaintance has
it been! How have I been deceived! Equally m
brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your
patience, Eanny. This has been He greatest re¬
lief, and now we wall have done.”

And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words
that for five minutes she thought they had done.
Then, however, it all came on again, or something
very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s
rousing thoroughly up could really close such a con¬
versation. Till that happened, they continued to
talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had at¬
tached him, and how delightful nature had made
her, and how excellent she would have been had
she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now at
liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in
adding to his knowledge of her real character by
some hint of what share his brother’s state of
health might be supposed to have in her wish for

a complete reconciliation. This was not an agree¬
able intimation. Nature resisted it for a while.
It-^ould have been a vast deal pleasanter to have
had her more disinterested in her attachment; but
his vanity was not of a strength to fight long
against reason. He submitted to believe that
Tom’s illness had influenced her; only reserving
for himself this consoling thought, that considering
the many counteractions of opposing habits, she
had certainly been more attached to him than
could have been expected, and for his sake been
more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly

MANSFIELD PARK.

293

the same; and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impres¬
sion, which such a disappointment must make on
his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate some¬
what of his sufferings, hut still it was a sort of
thing which he never could get entirely the better
of; and as to his ever meeting with any woman
who could, — it was too impossible to be named
but with indignation. Fanny’s friendsnip was all
that he had to cling to.

CHAPTER XXIV.

IiET other pens dwell on guilt and misery. X
quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impa¬
tient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done
with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have
the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy
in spite of everything. She must have been a
happy creature in spue of all that she felt, or
thought she felt, for the distress of those around
her. She had sources of delight that must force
their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park,
she was useful, she was beloved; she was safe
from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came
back she had every proof that could be given, in
his then melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect
approbation and increased regard; and happy as
all this must make her, she would still have been
happy without any of it, for Edmund was no
longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from
happy himself. He was suffering from disappoint¬
ment and regret, grieving over what was, and
wishing for what could never be. She knew it
was so, and was sorry; but it was with a sorrow
so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease,

MANSFIELD PARK.

29?

and so much in harmony with every dearest sensa-
tion, that there are few who might not have been
glad to exchange their greatest gayety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, — a parent, and
conscious of errors in his own conduct as a parent,
was the longest to suffer. He felt that he ought
not to have allowed the marriage; that his daugh¬
ter’s sentiments had been sufficiently known to
him to render him culpable in authorizing it;
that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the
expedient, and been governed by motives of self¬
ishness and worldly wisdom. These were reflec¬
tions that required some time to soften; but time
will do almost everything; and though little com¬
fort arose on Mrs. Eushworth’s side for the mis¬
ery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found
greater than he had supposed in his other chil¬
dren. Julia’s match became a less desperate busi¬
ness than he had considered it at first. She was
humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr.
Yates, desirous of being really received into the
family, was disposed to look up to him and be
guided. He was not very solid; but there was a
hope -of his becoming less trifling, of his being
at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any
rate, there was comfort in finding his estate
rather more, and his debts much less, than he
had feared, and in being consulted and treated .
the friend best worth attending to. There was
comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his

health, without regaining the thoughtkssMss

and selfishness of his previous ^ ™

the better forever for his illness.

296

MANSFIELD PARK.

fered, and he had learnt to think, — two advantages
that he had never known before; and the self-
reproach arising from the deplorable event in
Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself acces¬
sory by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjusti¬
fiable theatre, made an impression on his mind
which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want
of sense or good companions, was durable in its
happy effects. He became what he ought to be, —
useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not
living merely for himself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon
as Sir Thomas could place dependence on such
sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father’s ease by improvement in the only point
in which he had given him pain before, — improve¬
ment in his spirits. After wandering about and
sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer
evenings, he had so well talked his mind into sub¬
mission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes
which gradually brought their alleviation to Sir
Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost,
aspl in part reconciling him to himself; though
the anguish arising from the conviction of his
own errors in the education of his daughters was
never to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavorable to
the character of any young people must be the to¬
tally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia
had been always experiencing at home, where the
excessive indulgence and flattery of their aunt
had been continually contrasted with his own

MANSFIELD PARK.

297

severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in ex¬
pecting to counteract what was wrong in Mrs.
Norris by its reverse in himself, — clearly saw
that he had but increased the evil, by teaching
them to repress their spirits in his presence, as
to make their real disposition unknown to him,
and sending them for all their indulgences to a
person who had been able to attach them only by
the blindness of her affection and the excess of
her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but,
bad as it was, he gradually grew to feel that it
had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education. Something must have been want¬
ing within, or time would have worn away much
of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
principle, had been wanting; that they had never
been properly taught to govern their inclinations
and tempers by that sense of duty which can
alone suffice. They had been instructed theoreti¬
cally in their religion, but never required to bring
it into daily practice. To be distinguished for
elegance and accomplishments — the authorized
object of their youth — could have had no use¬
ful influence that way, no moral effect on the
mind. He had meant them to be good, but his
cares had been directed to the understanding and
manners, not the disposition; and of the neces¬
sity of self-denial and humility, he feared they
had never heard from any lips that could profit
them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now
he could scarcely comprehend to have been pos

298

MANSFIELD PARK.

Bible. Wretchedly did he feel that with all the
cost and care of an anxious and expensive educa¬
tion, he had brought up his daughters without
their understanding their first duties, or his be¬
ing acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs.
Eushworth especially were made known to him
only in their sad result. She was not to he pre¬
vailed on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to
marry him, and they continued together till she
was obliged to be convinced that such hope was
vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness
arising from the conviction rendered her temper
so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,
as to make them for a while each other’s punish¬
ment, and then induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to he reproached as the
ruin of all his happiness in Fanny, and carried
away no better consolation in leaving him than
that she had divided them. What can exceed the
misery of such a mind in such a situation!

Mr. Eushworth had no difficulty in procuring
a divorce; and so ended a marriage contracted
tender such circumstances as to make any better
end, the effect of good luck, not to he reckoned
on. She had despised him, and loved another;
and he had been very much aware that it was so.
The indignities of stupidity, and the disappoint¬
ments of selfish passion can excite little pity.
His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife.
He was released from the engagement to be morti¬
fied and unhappy till some other pretty girl could

MANSFIELD PARK.

299

attract him into matrimony again, and lie might
set forward on a second and, it is to be hoped,
more prosperous trial of the state, — if duped, to
he duped at least with good humor and good luclr ;
while she must withdraw with infinitely stronger
feelings to a retirement and reproach which could
allow no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject
of most melancholy and momentous consultation.
Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment
with the demerits of her niece, would have had
her received at home and countenanced by them
all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.
Norris’s anger against Fanny was so much the
greater, from considering her residence there as
the motive. She persisted in placing his scruples
to her account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly
assured her that had there been no young Woman
in question, had there been no young person of
either sex belonging to him, to he endangered by
the society or hurt by the character of Mis. Rush
worth, he would never have offered so great an
insult to the neighborhood as to expect it to
notice her. As a daughter, — lie hoped a pem-
tent0ne, — she should be protected by him, and
secured in every comfort, and supported by every
encouragement to do right, which their relative
situations admitted; hut further than that lie
would not go. Maria had destroyed her own char¬
acter, and he would not, by a vain attempt to
restore what never could he restored, he affording
his sanction to vice, or, in seeking to lessen its
disgrace, be anywise accessory to introducing such

300

MANSFIELD PARK.

misery in another man’s family as he had known
himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit
Mansfield, and devote herself to her unfortunate
Maria, and in an establishment being formed for
them in another country, remote and private,
where, shut up together with little society, on one
side no affection, on the other no judgment, it
may be reasonably supposed that their tempers be¬
came their mutual punishment. Mrs. Norris s
removal from Mansfield was the great supplemen¬
tary comfort of Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion
of her had been sinking from the day of his return
from Antigua: in every transaction together from
that period, in their daily intercourse, in business,
or in chat, she had been regularly losing ground
in his esteem, and convincing him that either
time had done her much disservice, or that he had
considerably overrated her sense, and wonderfully
borne with her manners before. He had felt her
as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse,
as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with
life; she seemed a part of himself that must be
bpriie forever. To be relieved from her, therefore,
was so great a felicity that had she not left bitter
remembrances behind her, there might have been
danger of his learning almost to approve the evil
which prodimed such a good.

She was. regretted by no one at Mansfield. She
had never been able to attach even those she loved
best; and since Mrs. Rushworth’s elopement her
temper had been in a state of such irritation as
to make her everywhere tormenting. Not even

MANSFIELD PARK.

301

Fanny had tears for Aunt Norris, — not even when
she was gone forever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was ow¬
ing in some measure to a favorable difference of
disposition and circumstance, but in a greater to
her having been less the darling of that very aunt,
less flattered and less spoilt. Her beauty and
acquirements had held but a second place. She
had been always used to think herself a little in¬
ferior to Maria. Her temper was naturally the easi¬
est of the two; her feelings, though quick, were
more controllable; and education had not given
her so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappoint¬
ment in Henry Crawford. After the first bitter¬
ness of the conviction of being slighted was over,
she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not
thinking of him again; and when the acquaintance
was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth’s house
became Crawford’s object, she had had the merit
of withdrawing herself from it, and of choosing
that time to pay a visit to her other friends, in
order to secure herself from being again too much
attracted. This had been her motive in going to
her cousins. Mr. Yates’s convenience had had
nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his
attentions some time, but with very little idea of
ever accepting him; and had not her sister s con¬
duct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread
of her father and of home on that event — imag¬
ining its certain consequence to herself would be
greater severity and restraint — made her hastily
resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all

302

MANSFIELD PARK.

risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never
have succeeded. She had not eloped with any
worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had
appeared to her the only thing to be done. Maria s
guilt had induced Julia’s folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence
and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks
of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once
it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited,
led him into the way of happiness. Could lie
have been satisfied with the conquest of one ami¬
able woman’s affections, could he have found suffi¬
cient exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in
working himself into the esteem and tenderness of
Fanny Price, there would have been every proba¬
bility of success and felicity for him. His affec¬
tion had already done something. Her influence
over him had already given him some influence
over her. Would he have deserved more, there
can be no doubt that more would have been ob¬
tained; especially when that marriage had taken
place which would have given him the assistance
of -her conscience in subduing her first inclination,
and brought them very often together. Would he
have persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have
been his reward — and a reward very voluntarily
bestowed — within a reasonable period from Ed¬
mund’s marrying Mar}'. Had he done as he in¬
tended, and as he knew he ought, by going down
to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth,
he might have been deciding his own happy
destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs.
Fraser’s party : his staying was made of flattering

MANSFIELD PARK.

303

consequence, and he was to meet Mrs. Hush worth
there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged,
and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too
strong for a mind unused to make any sacrifice to
right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,
resolved that writing should answer the purpose
of it, or that its purpose was unimportant, — and
stayed. He saw Mrs. Eushworth, was received
by her with a coldness which ought to have been
repulsive, and have established apparent indiffer¬
ence between them forever ; hut he was mortified,
he could not bear to he thrown off by the woman
whose smiles had been so wholly at his command;
he must exert himself to subdue so proud a dis¬
play of resentment; it was anger on Fanny’s ac¬
count; he must get the better of it, and make
Mrs. Eushworth Maria Bertram again in her treat¬
ment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack; and by ani¬
mated perseverance had soon re-established the
sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry, of
flirtation which hounded his views; hut in tri¬
umphing over the discretion which, though begin-

ight have saved them both, he
n the power of feelings on her

ning in anger, mig
had put himself in

side more strong than he had supposed. She
loved him: there was no withdrawing attentions
avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his
own vanity, with as little excuse of love as pos

lllltj j vv x uri « • i -P

and without the smallest inconstancy ot
hnwardfl her cousin. To keep Fanny and

304

MANSFIELD PARK.

have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth s
credit than he felt it for his own. When he re¬
turned from Richmond, he would have been glad
to see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that fol¬
lowed was the result of her imprudence; and he
went off with her at last, because he could not
help it, regretting Fanny, even at the moment,
but regretting her infinitely more when all the
bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few
months had taught him, by the force of contrast,
to place a yet higher value on the sweetness of her
temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence
of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of dis¬
grace, should in a just measure attend his share
of the offence, is, we know, not one of the barriers
which society gives to virtue. In this world the
penalty is less equal than could be wished; but
without presuming to look forward to a juster
appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a
man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to be pro¬
viding for himself no small portion of vexation
and regret, — vexation that must rise sometimes
tc^self-reproacli, and regret to wretchedness, — in
having so requited hospitality, so injured family
peace, so forfeited his best, most estimable, and
endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman
whom he had rationally as well as passionately
loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the
two families, the continuance of the Bertrams and
Grants in such close neighborhood would have
been most distressing; but the absence of the lat-

MANSFIELD PARK.

305

ter, for some months purposely lengthened, ended
very fortunately in the necessity, or at least
the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr.
Grant, through an interest on which he had al¬
most ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in
Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for
leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in Lon¬
don, and an increase of income to answer the ex¬
penses of the change, was highly acceptable to
those who went and those who stayed.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved,
must have gone with some regret from the scenes
and people she had been used to ; hut the same
happiness of disposition must in any place and
any society secure her a great deal to enjoy, and
she had again a home to offer Mary ; and Mary had
had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity,
ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of
the last half-year, to be in need of the true hind¬
ness of her sister’s heart, and the rational tran¬
quillity of her ways. They lived together; and
when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and
death by three great institutionary dinners in one
week, they still lived together; for Mary, though
perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself
to a younger brother again, was long in finding,
among the dashing representatives or idle heir
apparents who were at the command of her beauty
and her £20,000, any one who could satisfy the
better taste she had acquired at Mansfield whose
character and manners could authorize a hope o
the domestic happiness she had there learnt to esti¬
mate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of

her head.

you il — ci0

306

MANSFIELD PABK.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this
respect. He had not to wait and wish with va¬
cant affections for an object worthy to succeed her
in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary
Crawford, and observing to Fanny how impossible
it was that he should ever meet with such another
woman, before it began to strike him whether a
very different kind of woman might not do just
as wen — or a great deal better ; whether Fanny
herself were not growing as dear, as important to
him, in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary
Crawford had ever been; and whether it might not
be a possible, a hopeful undertaking to persuade
her that her warm and sisterly regard for him

would be foundation enough for wedded love..

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion,
that every one may be at liberty to fix their own,
aware that the cure of unconquerable passions and
the transfer of unchanging attachments must vary
much as to time in different people. I only entreat
everybody to believe that exactly at the time when
it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a
week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss
Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny
as Fanny herself could desire. ?

With such a regard for her, indeed, as hi'S. had
long been, — a regard founded on the most endearing
claims of innocence and helplessness, and completed
by every recommendation of growing worth, what
could be more natural than the change? Loving,
guiding, protecting her, as he had been doing ever
since her being ten years old, her mind in so great
a degree formed by his care, and her comfort de-

MANSFIELD PARK.

307

pending on his kindness, an object to him of such
close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own
importance with her than any one else at Mansfield,
what was there now to add, but tbat he should
learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark
ones? And being always with her, and always
talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in
that favorable state which a recent disappointment
gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long
in obtaining the pre-eminence.

Having once set out, and felt that he had done
so, on this road to happiness, there was nothing
on the side of prudence to stop him or make his
progress slow, — no doubts of her deserving, no fears
from opposition of taste, no need of drawing new
hopes of happiness from dissimilarity of temper.
Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted
no half-concealment, no self-deception on the pres¬
ent, no reliance on future improvement. Even in
the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowl¬
edged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must
be his sense of it now, therefore! She was, of
course, only too good for him; but as nobody minds
having what is too good for them, he was very
steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and
it was not possible that encouragement from her
should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubt¬
ing as she was, it was still impossible that such
tenderness as hers should not at times hold out
the strongest hope of success, though it remained
for a later period to tell him the whole delightful
and astonishing truth. His happiness in knowing
himself to have been so long the beloved of such a

MANSFIELD PARK.

308

heart must have been great enough to warrant any
strength of language in which he could clothe it
to her or to himself; it must have been a delight¬
ful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere
which no description can reach. Let no one pre¬
sume to give the feelings of a young woman on re¬
ceiving the assurance of that affection of which she
has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were
no difficulties behind, no drawback of poverty or
parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s
wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious
and mercenary connections, prizing more and
more the sterling good of principle and temper,
and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest secu¬
rities all that remained to him of domestic felicity,
he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on the
more than possibility of the two young friends find¬
ing their mutual consolation in each other for all
that had occurred of disappointment to either; and
the joyful consent which met Edmund’s application,
the high sense of having realized a great acquisi¬
tion in the promise of Fanny for a daughter,
formed just such a contrast with his early opinion
on the subject when the poor little girl’s coming
bad been first agitated, as time is forever produc¬
ing between the plans and decisions of mortals,
for their own instruction and their neighbors’
entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted.
His charitable kindness had been rearing a prime
comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich
repayment, and the general goodness of his intern

MANSFIELD PARK.

309

tions by her deserved it. He might have made
her childhood happier: hut it had been an error
of judgment only which had given him the appear¬
ance of harshness, and deprived him of her early
love; and now, on really knowing each other,
their mutual attachment became very strong.
After settling her at Thornton Lacey with every
kind attention to her comfort, the object of almost
every day was to see her there, or to get her away
from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady
Bertram, she could not be parted with willingly
by her. No happiness of son or niece could make
her wish the marriage. But it was possible to
part with her, because Susan remained to supply
her place. Susan became the stationary niece, —
delighted to be so! — and equally well adapted for
it by a readiness of mind and an inclination for use¬
fulness, as Fanny bad been by sweetness of tem¬
per and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could
never be spared. First as a comfort to Fanny,
then as an auxiliary, and last as her substitute,
she was established at Mansfield, with every ap¬
pearance of equal permanency. Her more fearless
disposition and happier nerves made everything
easy to her there. With quickness in understand¬
ing the tempers of those she had to deal with, and
no natural timidity to restrain any consequent
wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;
and after Fanny’s removal succeeded so naturally
to her influence over the hourly comfort of her
aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the most
beloved of the two. In her usefulness, in Fanny’s

310

MANSFIELD PARK.

excellence, in William’s continued good conduct
and rising fame, and in the general well-doing
and success of the other members of the family,
all assisting to advance each other, and doing
credit to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw
repeated and forever repeated reason to rejoice m
what he had done for them all, and acknowledge
the advantages of early hardship and discipline,
and the consciousness of being born to struggle
and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no
want of fortune or friends, the happiness of the
married cousins must appear as secure as earthly
happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic
life, and attached to country pleasures, their
home was the home of affection and comfort; and
to complete the picture of good, the acquisition
of Mansfield living by the death of Dr. Grant
occurred just after they had been mairied long
enough to begin to want an increase of income,
and feel their distance from the paternal abode an
inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and
Die parsonage there, which under each of its two
former owners Eanny had never been able to ap¬
proach but with some painful sensation of restraint
or alarm, soon grew as dear to her heart, and as
thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as everything else
within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park
had long been.

THE END.

.

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